No Rhyme or Reason
by interpol.ice
Summary: QW13. Being Cheerios Captain and Head of the Celibacy Club, Quinn Fabray was McKinley High's glorified version of the girl-next-door. What happens when she finally realizes that she's always had a thing for Santana "the brain with boobs" Lopez?
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** No Rhyme or Reason  
**Author:** interpol..ice  
**Fandom:** Glee  
**Characters:** Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez  
**Rating:** T  
**Words:** 8,600+  
**Quinntana Week Prompt: **Monday, March 25 - Popular Girl & Nerd  
**Summary:** QW13. Being Cheerios Captain and Head of the Celibacy Club, Quinn Fabray was McKinley High's glorified version of the girl-next-door. What happens when she finally realizes that she's always had a thing for Santana "the brain with boobs" Lopez?  
**Disclaimer:** _Glee_ belongs to Ryan Murphy and his people. I own little, I own little.  
**Author's Note:** This was written for Day 1 of Quinntana Week 2013 (GO QUINNTANA!). It's late because I'm the unluckiest person in the world (blackout, bad file recovery, the .doc file turned into a thousand hash symbols) so I'm sorry. I am absolutely new at writing with _Glee_ and I honestly have no idea what I'm doing so here goes nothing.

_P.S.: this site's line breaks are ruining my life. '_x x x'_ marks a line break_

_P.S.2 (for the benefit of the people who felt cheated when they finished reading this chap): yes, there's still a part 2 so hang in there_

x x x

* * *

**NO RHYME OR REASON**

_by  
interpol..ice_

* * *

Quinn Fabray couldn't tell you the exact moment it all sort of clicked in her head.

Because that was the thing.

It did not click.

It made no sense whatsoever.

And even though Quinn couldn't stop thinking about her, Santana Lopez, Santana _fucking_ Lopez, had absolutely nothing to do with anything.

x x x

* * *

Lucy Quinn Fabray was the standard golden girl you'd find in most high schools. That blonde cheerleader who was so transcendentally beautiful that she could wake the choir of angels in anyone's head with just a toss of her hair. With just a bat of her eyelashes.

When Quinn smiled at all the boys, they had to shuffle their feet so that their pants wouldn't stick to their waking boners. She considered this as one of her many super powers.

Yes, everyone loved her. But the funny thing was, Quinn didn't really care. And no one knew this, of course. They all just assumed that it was all so peachy and perfect for her so Quinn had absolutely no reason to resent the universe.

She too, had her issues, only that her indifference, her coldness-bordering-on-animosity was hidden beneath layers of mascara and foundation and lipstick. Her indifference went by undetected and was constantly being mistaken as Quinn politely minding her own business.

Santana Lopez was one of the very few people who did not look at Quinn when she walked and lit up the halls. She was someone Quinn knew all her life but never really talked to. Santana was just there, drowning in the shadows while Quinn soaked up in the light. Soaked up the light until she _became_ the light.

One thing about Quinn was that she got this strange satisfaction from turning corners. Just catching all the guys and the girls unaware, stunning them to the spot. Her spell lasted for a moment and it was only when she was out of sight that they breathed again. In those few seconds, Quinn was the sun.

Which was why it was so hard to wrap her head around the fact that Santana Lopez never gave her the time of day.

x x x

* * *

She and Santana go way back.

Quinn's first memory of the girl was of her sipping at a juice box. Quinn remembered the sound of the suction as little Santana emptied it of its grape juice. Quinn remembered Santana blowing the box up with air, then setting it down on the concrete. Quinn remembered little Santana stomping on the thing and the blasting sound it all made.

Quinn remembered walking up to the girl, own juice box in hand, own straw in mouth. Her own empty orange juice box popped as she stepped on it in the same fashion.

All the other kids were playing kickball and Quinn was only happy to squander her alone time with the new kid.

As Santana smiled at her, Quinn introduced herself. "I'm Lucy," she said.

When the girl spoke, to finally reveal her name, Quinn loved the way the girl's little tongue moved to get the sounds out. Quinn never thought she ever heard a word so beautiful.

Santana. San-ta-na. Santana.

x x x

* * *

The next day, Quinn thought they would be friends. That it was understood, after popping their juice boxes together, that Quinn was entitled to the pleasure of Santana's unique company. (No one else had that tan skin, those long lashes. No one else played with their juice boxes quite like Santana did).

But no, Santana denied Quinn those hopes and dreams.

In the preschool playground, there used to be this scary willow tree near the trash bins. It was a sad and bent thing that, the fifth graders used to say, swallowed your grandparents when they got really boring.

The next day, during recess, Santana sat at the bottom of that tree. She had a book in her lap, and she read it serenely, the wind picking her dark, wavy hair up and away every now and then.

And Quinn was five years old and trees like that scared her because she was extremely fond of her grandparents. They, unlike her own parents, were quiet, and peaceful, and always playing chess out on the porch. Quinn didn't want to be blamed if they were ever to be eaten by a mutant tree.

But after a week of Santana being so... unreachable, Quinn finally gathered enough courage to walk up over to other girl at the willow tree and sit beside her.

"What's that?"

Santana did not stop reading. She just held the book up at an angle, cover-out to Quinn for the little blonde girl to read.

_Charlie and the Chocolate Factory._

She's never heard of it. Her bedtime stories were from the Book of Genesis (but Quinn didn't know that back then). And those were read aloud by her mother. Quinn remembered being so impressed that Santana was already reading these thick books with little words and even less pictures. Quinn was impressed but even as a child, Quinn already had a knack for hiding her emotions.

"What's it about?" she asked.

Then Quinn, who had always been adored by her parents, by her friends, by her teachers, got her heart broken for the first time ever when Santana (with a bored sigh) shut her book, stood up, and left.

So Little Quinn sat there, pulling at the dry grass and staring at Santana's back as it got smaller and smaller and wetter and blurrier and the next thing Quinn knew was that Mrs. Fergurson, their stocky preschool teacher, was desperately trying to calm her down with buckets of lollipops in the Nurse's office.

x x x

* * *

The following summer, Quinn read every Roald Dahl book she could get her hands on. Just in case Santana ever spoke to her, she'd be ready. She'd know what to say. And every time she finished a book, she thought about Santana. If she'd smile then.

But they never got around to that because Santana... Santana was an absolute snob.

x x x

* * *

Quinn never doubted Santana's intelligence. In grade school, Santana never raised her hand but when a teacher asked the entire class a question and was met with silence, that teacher would call on Santana. And each and every year, Santana would answer them in that shy-bored way of hers. Quinn and the rest of the class had no idea what she was talking about most of the time, but more often than not, whatever Santana said, it satisfied the teachers.

When they were in the third grade, Santana took fifth grade Math. In the fourth, Quinn didn't know how it came up, but Santana was already reciting laws from the penal code. And before she even hit eleven, she won at the Lima Junior Science Fair. Twice on back-to-back years.

In the sixth grade, Quinn came in second place at the school spelling bee. The word she screwed up was ineffable (_ineffable: incapable of being expressed_). After replacing the double f's with a 'ph', Quinn walked back to the row of chairs on the stage and tried to maybe not collapse while she took her seat. She sat there with her head hung in shame and she listened as Santana spelled "colloquial" to perfection.

x x x

* * *

Something was up because Santana was out in the hallways during third period. Santana never went out for third period. She never went out for any period at all, when Quinn really thought about it.

After coming out of the bathroom, Quinn found Santana hot on Noah Puckerman's heels. Quinn wondered what their deal was and she saw that Puck had a comic book in his hand.

When Santana caught up with him, she grabbed a hold of his jacket. "Give it back, you big jerk!" she said as she tugged at him violently.

Puck tried to propel himself forward, but he was met with even more restraint. "Shut up, Lopez!" He turned to face her while extending his arm the other way to keep the comic book as far from Santana as possible. "You're lucky I won't hit a girl. Now leave me alone!"

Santana jumped and managed to get a hand on her comic and the two of them struggled roughly for a while before Puck grabbed a fistful of Santana's hair. He pulled and it took her completely by surprise so Puck was able to yank the comic book out of Santana's grasp. He then shoved Santana, scrawny Santana away so hard, that she tumbled over backwards. She made a great sound as her back hit the lockers.

Puck ran off like the jerk he was and Quinn almost went after him but her concern for Santana was more immediate. The other girl was squatting against the row of lockers, the small of her back against the steel, her head low, and her hands on her knees.

"You saw all that?" Santana said, not raising her head.

Quinn looked left and right to make sure Santana didn't direct that question to anyone else. There wasn't another soul in the hall so Quinn said, "Yeah."

Santana stared forward blankly. Then she frowned. "I waited in line two hours for that," she confessed slowly.

Quinn never waited in line that long for anything. She wanted to say something to make Santana feel better but then the other girl pressed her backside against the lockers and slid down the length of them until she sat on the floor.

"Did you know Spider-man wasn't even supposed to come out? That there was this hopeless series, _Amazing Fantasy_, and Spider-Man was just supposed to be another random addition slapped on the cover of what would probably be the last edition..."

Quinn approached her cautiously and sat down beside her. She had to swallow before she said, "Is that what Puck just took?"

And then it was quiet.

"Why didn't you help?" Santana said suddenly. Quinn was eleven but she recognized the anger bubbling beneath Santana's words. "Why didn't you help when it mattered?"

And Quinn didn't know why. Quinn couldn't answer her.

Then Santana started shaking and with their shoulders touching, Quinn felt it too. Quinn shook too. She watched as Santana pulled her legs in towards herself, wrapping her arms around her knees afterward.

And so Santana cried, curled up into that ball and despite her growing urge to hold Santana, to try and make the bad stuff go away, Quinn just sat there and watched.

x x x

* * *

Quinn wanted to get the comic book back for Santana but the next day, during lunch, Puck and Finn Hudson had this stupid arm-wrestling contest. Finn was on the verge of winning, like he always did, and slammed his and Puck's conjoined hands on the cafeteria table. The surface shook from all the force and his milk carton spilled chocolate-flavored liquid all over Santana's _Amazing Fantasy_.

She figured it'd probably hurt Santana even more to see how Puck and Finn ruined it so for the moment, Quinn abandoned the thought of heroic deeds and winning Santana's favor.

x x x

* * *

In middle school, when she dropped being "Lucy" and started fashioning herself as "Quinn", boys took a certain interest in her. She received many presents and sweets and a symphony of pebbles thrown at her window.

Quinn decided boys were annoying.

She then wondered why they didn't go after girls like Santana.

What were they, blind?

And it wasn't like Quinn was really looking or anything, but she could sight out the swell of Santana's chest underneath her hoodies and sweaters. (Really though, Santana had a nice, perky thing going on for her there and Quinn wasn't a perv, she was just... observant.)

So why didn't the boys notice?

But when Quinn really thought about it, she'd hate for the boys to unearth the secret of Santana's growing... her growing personality. Quinn wouldn't be able to stomach the sight of having pubescent boys all up on Santana Lopez.

x x x

* * *

She heard that Santana's father became a doctor. When Russell Fabray found out, he said, after taking a long sip of his whiskey, "Amazing what you can do with a degree from Community College. They're handing out doctorates like local yard sale fliers." Then her father downed the rest of his drink and, slamming his glass against the mahogany table, said, "God save America!"

And so, Santana Lopez was never invited to any of Quinn Fabray's super fun Bible Study Sleepovers.

Quinn shouldn't have even been as upset as she was. It was silly. She and Santana weren't even friends.

x x x

* * *

The summer before high school, before William McKinley, Quinn went to Cheer Camp. Aside from knowing she'd make a perfect McKinley Cheerio, Quinn wanted a head start on whatever it was the infamous Coach Sue Sylvester was going to put the freshmen applicants through during tryouts.

There weren't many boys (Damien and Victor wore more foundation than Quinn did so they didn't really count) so Quinn was able to work on her femininity, surrounded by girls who more or less shared her ambitions.

Chastity Brown was Cheer Camp's Head Counselor and Head Trainer. She just graduated from McKinley as Captain of the Cheerios and with a National Championship under her belt. Chastity was a pale and petite girl whose copper hair fell around her in waves. She was really pretty, especially with her freckles.

Dorrie Walters was Chastity's Co-captain during their Senior year. Dorrie had straw-colored hair that she had cropped close to her scalp like a pixie so she didn't have to comb it. It fit her well since she had such a strong face. Dorrie was Chastity's best friend and she called Chastity 'Chaz' and Quinn used to think it was really cute.

When they weren't showing the younger girls how to properly execute back-flips and splits, they were off at the side. Dorrie would say something under her breath and Chaz would go red from all the giggling. She'd smack Dorrie on the arm and then they'd go back and comment on the other girls' forms and stances.

x x x

* * *

Quinn caught them by the lake once. It was a Sunday and there weren't supposed to be any activities so they were allowed to sleep in. But Quinn, being Quinn, woke up crazy-early anyway and went for a run... which was cut short when she heard splashing in the river.

From her makeshift vantage point in the bushes, Quinn saw the two of them sprawled upon a thick blanket, wet after taking a dip into the pool in what looked like _just_ their underwear. Then Chaz kissed Dorrie and Dorrie kissed back and Quinn? Quinn left after Dorrie unhooked Chaz's bra.

Quinn ran back to her cabin and took a long, cold shower, trying with all her and God's might not to touch herself.

x x x

* * *

Her first week of high school, Quinn tried out for the Cheerios. She impressed Sue Sylvester so much that Sue gave her the biggest locker in the locker room. The other Cheerios were supposed to hate her then, but strangely, they fawned over her even more.

Quinn was practically crowned the next Captain what with Coach Sylvester's locker gesture and the other girls feeling like they had to pay some price to save themselves from being assigned to the bottom of the pyramid. They were all conniving bitches, Quinn could tell.

Not Brittany, though. Brittany was another freshman who made the cut because she was an insanely talented dancer. Now, Brittany was nice. Simple, yes. But genuinely nice.

And so, Quinn and Brittany walked the halls together, ate lunch together, stretched together, had tea with Coach Sylvester in her office together. Quinn was happy. She had a friend and she was transitioning into high school, totally smooth operator.

x x x

* * *

A breakthrough happened. On Halloween, Brittany threw a big costume party at her house and Santana actually came.

Quinn was nursing a Diet Coke at the pool area while sneaking glances inside, to where Santana was, leaning against the wall near the punch bowl and the keg. She couldn't stop looking because Santana, to Quinn's eternal surprise, wore this uncharacteristically revealing outfit: a metal bikini.

Seriously.

It was so skimpy she could give Brittany's Xena Warrior Princess costume a run for its money.

Wanting to get a better view, Quinn made her way towards the living room. As she passed through the sliding doors she came face to face with Sam Evans.

"Whoa, Marilyn Monroe," Sam said with his trademark wide-mouth smile.

Quinn made a show of fluffing her hair up coupled with a cheeky wink, her white dress billowing beneath her from her movements.

And from what Quinn deduced with the purple hoodie and the neat haircut that had his bangs neatly falling over his eyes, Sam was supposed to be Justin Bieber.

Then, like they always did, Quinn's eyes found Santana. She tapped Sam on the arm and said, "Hey, that girl by the punch bowl, who's she supposed to be?"

Sure Sam was on the football team, the reserve quarterback next to Finn Hudson, but he was well versed in Geek so...

"Princess Leia," Sam said instantaneously. Quinn noticed how his grip tightened around his beer bottle. "Man, that's hot. That's what Princess Leia wore when she was captured and made a sex slave by Jabba the Hutt."

Quinn took it all in. Then said, "That's nice, Sam."

Without any notice whatsoever, Brittany's arm snaked its way between the two of them and took the Diet Coke can out of Quinn's hand and replaced it with a cup of beer.

Brittany was definitely rocking her Xena Warrior Princess costume. She had a black wig on and she was all skin where her two-piece armor wasn't covering. Answering the prayers of half of McKinley's male student body, Brittany's boobs were, in a really sad attempt, hiding behind these small breast-plate discs.

"What's she doing here?" Sam asked Quinn, continuing their conversation.

"Who are you guys talking about?" Brittany said quickly.

Sam rubbed his chin, turned his gaze to the pool area to be discreet, before saying, "The hottie by the punch bowl."

Brittany took Sam's directions and looked. She caught Santana's eye and Quinn wasn't sure why but she averted her eyes from their exchange.

"Oh, her?" And then Brittany hung her head back, looking at the ceiling, muttering, "God, I don't even know her name."

"Britt?" Sam said, growing antsy. He kept looking over his shoulder to where Santana was.

"Oh yeah, I invited her," Brittany said simply. "She knows how to make balloon animals. I saw at Homecoming Fair. She gave me a big fat balloon cat because I told her about Lord Tubbington." Then Brittany got that look on her face. The one that she got when she had a brilliant idea.

She grabbed Quinn's hand and tugged forcibly. "Oh my God. Let's talk to her! We have to talk to her! Who has a balloon?"

"On it!" Sam said, already scrambling towards the kitchen.

x x x

* * *

"Wow, who knew you were this hot?"

Brittany was always so direct.

Santana had a furious blush going on. "This," she said, motioning towards herself, "is a dare."

Brittany just stared at Santana for a bit. That blank stare that never gave away what she was thinking so yeah, things got pretty awkward. Santana shot Quinn a questioning look to which Quinn could only smile apologetically at.

"Well, you're definitely winning, babe," Brittany finally said, clapping her hands together excitedly. "Drink to that?"

"No, I'm good," Santana said, holding up her Diet Coke (_This is a sign_, Quinn thought stupidly for a second).

"Nonsense," Brittany said. "This is good beer. I'd be offended if you didn't have any. All the beer must gooo."

And so while Brittany was getting Santana's drink, Quinn was presented with a chance to speak with Santana. She was about to start with a tested and proven "hey" but before she could open her mouth, Brittany, like a damn ninja, shoved a red solo cup filled to the brim with beer and foam right in front of Santana's face.

"Hold this," Brittany said, thrusting the cup into Santana's other hand. "I think Sam got lost in the house," Brittany continued gravely. "I'll be right back.

Santana watched as Brittany left and then she turned to Quinn and shrugged.

Quinn's grace and charm chose the perfect time to abandon her in her hour of need, because Quinn just shrugged back. She walked over to the keg and took the hose, fumbling with it until the squeeze trigger was in her hand. She was shaking because of Santana's proximity, because of Santana's costume, because of Santana's boobs being _right there_ within groping distance. She was shaking so much that it was a miracle that she didn't spill any beer while she refilled her cup.

"Monroe, eh?" Santana said, with a small smile.

"Yeah, well-spotted." And then Quinn thought, 'fuck it', added, "_Some Like It Hot_... Do _you_ like it hot?"

And then Santana laughed. But it was this nervous laugh that told Quinn Santana was laughing _at _her, not with her so Santana couldn't look Quinn in the eye when she brought her drink to her lips. She sniffed at it before taking a sip.

Santana made a face then. Obviously, she's never tried beer before. "Ack," she said. Then to Quinn, went, "I thought your costume was from _The Seven Year Itch_?"

Quinn closed her eyes, devastated. In her head she pictured an entire zoo of balloon animals popping.

"It is," she started, opening her eyes again to meet Santana's stare. Which was a mistake since she kind of lost control of her mouth again. "It is. But I just... I just..."

"Quinn!"

It was Brittany, and trailing right after her, Sam, with a pile of inflated modeling balloons in his arms.

"Shit," Santana said, overwhelmed at the sight of them.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then," Quinn said. She nodded a goodbye to Santana before she could humiliate herself any further.

x x x

* * *

Quinn watched from the safe zone that was Brittany's couch. It was dangerous being that near Santana while she was wearing that ridiculous biking thing so Quinn didn't want to take any more chances. Across the living room, Santana demonstrated shaping the balloons and it wasn't long before Brittany had a pink balloon unicorn and Sam had a red balloon sword.

While Brittany busied herself by making her unicorn gallop across the air, Sam held his sword balloon up and tickled Santana's face with it. What a piece of work, Quinn thought. He even got Santana to laugh.

Sam said something then, taking the long balloon and wrapping his fingers around the sword's tip and he... he slid his hand down the length of it, then slid it up again, and down. And up, and down. He smirked at Santana all the while.

And Quinn couldn't believe it. There was seriously something wrong with Sam's train of thought. Her eyes were probably widening at the same rate Santana's were and it was no surprise that after five seconds, Sam Evans was slapped so hard across the face that the whole party scene in the living room stopped at the huge smacking sound Santana's palm and Sam's cheekbone made.

x x x

* * *

Sam whined about getting colossally denied and Puck listened like a true friend and said something along the lines of, "She won't let up for anyone, bro. It isn't personal." And Puck said Santana was a bitch and Sam, still glum and rolling in the rejection pile, nodded and raised his bottle to Puck's words.

Quinn was through sitting through their conversation and she uncrossed her legs. She wiggled out of the jerk-boy sandwich that Sam and Puck unintentionally trapped her in. She pushed off from the couch, dislodging herself successfully.

x x x

* * *

The next Monday, they took to calling Santana "the boob with brains". They spread this story about the frigid-bitch-nerdiac with the great tits... who wouldn't let anyone copy her homework.

Santana started wearing over-sized hoodies and sweaters since then. This didn't please Quinn at all.

x x x

* * *

At William McKinley High, Santana always sat in the front because she was a huge dork. Sitting just a couple of rows behind, Quinn would catch the occasional A or A+ on the other girl's tests.

Quinn made this ridiculous oath to pull the fire alarm if Santana got anything lower than a B+.

December came and McKinley was still high and dry. No surprises there.

x x x

* * *

Quinn put up the Celibacy Club before the Holidays. She hated brushing off every other boy who dropped a line, or touched her in a suggestive way. Quinn needed something more full-proof.

She needed God.

x x x

* * *

Now that they knew that she was the devoted organizer of the Celibacy Club, she could just hold up her little cross and the boys would back off, like vampires.

At the Celibacy Club, any skank or slut could buy back her virginity. Under Quinn Fabray, your slate was wiped clean. Your sins were swept under the proverbial rug.

And there were two types of people in the McKinley High Celibacy Club: the virgins and the not-so-virgins, the Jesus freaks and the hypocrites, the willing and the forced.

And so, she started off with thirteen members. The same two people who had the eerie ability of quoting bible verses according to occasion were the same two people who got caught in the woods with their pants down and their bibles closed.

That caused such a big scandal in March and the only reason Quinn didn't kick them out was because she let the other Cheerios, who slept with half of the hockey and team, stay as well.

It was fucked up, yes, but there was strength in numbers. And Christianity was all about forgiveness so whatever they did, it didn't really matter to Quinn so as long as she was Celibacy Club president. So as long as she could keep the unwanted, sex-crazed boys out with her fake force-field of holiness.

x x x

* * *

In her Junior Year, the Celibacy Club grew to forty-three members. And she still had her virginity. Things were peachy keen for Quinn Fabrey. Absolutely peachy keen.

x x x

* * *

Yeah, Santana was a total nerd and all but she wasn't one of those kids the mean jocks would waste their slushies on. It wasn't until their Junior year that Santana got slushied for the first time and unfortunately, for Quinn, she just happened to be there that fateful Thursday afternoon.

She was on her way to class when the dicks from the football team, probably in an effort to 'impress' her, launched a slushie at the poor transferee from Dalton. This guy, this nancy kid named Blaine, appeared to be Santana's friend. They probably fucked, but Quinn had a strong feeling that Blaine was gay so...

Anyway, Santana stepped in and Quinn had to stop to see this. The blue slush hit Santana in the neck and her whole front.

Her teeth bared and clenched, visibly cold-shocked.

Then the dicks from the football team dunked their cups on Blaine's head at the same time. They laughed ever so obnoxiously and were looking to Quinn for some sort of approval.

Maybe the worst part was that the only thing she could do at that time, being limited by her reputation, was to glare at them before rolling her eyes.

She turned to Santana and Blaine and found that they were looking at her. They seemed like they wanted Quinn to do more than just stand there. To be more than just a witness of standard high school injustice. But then it dawned on them that Quinn wouldn't.

So they turned to each other, faces wet, sticky, and miserable. Santana squeezed the water out of her hair and Blaine took his glasses off and wiped at their lenses using the hem of his wet collared shirt.

She refused to meet their eyes when they passed, the jackasses. Quinn wanted to apologize for the dicks. But it really wasn't her place.

Santana and Blaine went on their way, dripping blue.

x x x

* * *

It happened again. But Quinn heard that this time, they caught Santana alone. The jocks found it extremely funny that Santana was 'gay for the fag'. At least, gay enough to take 14 ounces of slushie for him so they figured she deserved another, intentional round.

This time, the slushies were strawberry.

And Quinn saw Santana afterwards, her yellow shirt splotched with orange at the collar. Santana's lips were redder than they usually were.

Quinn avoided looking at Santana. In this situation, it would be really rude to stare.

x x x

* * *

The following week, Santana came to school in a clear, plastic poncho. She had these industrial goggles covering her eyes and it was like she was daring the jocks to slushie her again. Blaine was by her side, embarrassed and worried. His support of his friend's fashion choices was clearly nonexistent. He persisted on wearing his colored capri pants, collared shirt and bow-tie.

Quinn did not know if she should feel sorry for Santana or if she should admire her nerve.

But then class broke out for lunch and Santana got slushied again, right before she got to the cafeteria. Quinn decided she felt sorry for Santana.

x x x

* * *

When news of a possible Gay-Straight Alliance being set up at McKinley surfaced, strong reactions came with it. Santana and Blaine were the brains behind the movement and there was a quiet approval from most of the student body, which was expected.

Not everyone welcomed this idea with open arms though. There were still a couple of gutsy few who totally, vocally shot the idea down.

_Cocksucker fags wanting our support?_

_Tell them dykes to hit me up. All they need is some proper sexing and I'm the man.  
_

People in the Celibacy Club especially. Half of her members were confused and the other half were downright angry. To satisfy a request of one of the members, Quinn called for a meeting to decide on the Celibacy Club's stand on the issue.

_It's unnatural. Like the Harry Potter books. Someone's gotta keep all that sin in check._

_I get girl-on-girl. That's hot. But why would a dude ever wanna do another dude?_

That day, Quinn tried very hard to keep her face from contorting in annoyance. To keep from rolling her eyes. To keep from telling some of them how idiotic they were sounding. To keep from asking them how they ever graduated middle school. The bible fanatics especially, they went a little overzealous, making up these completely new verses that Quinn never came across in her ten years of Sunday school.

_Zacharias, chapter 60, verse 23: But God hates the homosexuals._

She ended up cutting the meeting short. If it went on any longer, Quinn was mighty sure six to ten people would've gotten a nice slap in the face.

All the things they said made Quinn finger at the cross on her neck nervously. These people still made up the Celibacy Club, the club that successfully kept the boys at bay for Quinn. She wasn't ready to lose that by sticking it to her members.

She had to stop this Gay-Straight Alliance from forming.

She had to talk to Santana.

x x x

* * *

She wrote a letter first, thinking she could completely avoid the situation. Basically, that letter contained a friendly and sensible suggestion for the proposed McKinley High Gay-Straight Alliance to pull out on their plans.

Quinn sprayed some perfume on this piece of paper before she sent it on its merry way. The envelope had Santana's name on it.

She also took the liberty of meeting with Principal Figgins herself and handing in a complaint form.

"For what, Miss Fabray?" Principal Figgins asked her, his thick grey eyebrow raised.

Quinn leaned in invitingly and Figgins followed suit, propping his elbows on his desk, interested.

She kept her voice steady. "For encouraging unholy behavior."

Quinn could not believe the words that were coming out of her mouth.

x x x

* * *

She was only doing this because her Celibacy Club had to see her making all the efforts. Or else she would be ousted. And Quinn always had trouble letting go of power once she got it.

x x x

* * *

"Yo Fabray!"

It was all too surreal to Quinn, hearing her name (okay, last name, _but still_) being called out in that voice.

Santana held the letter right up in Quinn's face. It was so close that Quinn could practically smell traces of her own perfume on it. That _Eau de Parfum's_ fragrance potency was reported to last up to three days after application. She gave the letter to Santana four days ago and Quinn was thrilled to find out that she got her money's worth.

And Santana ripped the piece of paper in half.

So much for diplomacy.

x x x

* * *

The next day, she found Santana in the library. Quinn spotted Santana's ridiculous chopsticks-bun across the room where the nerd was sitting at a long table, working on some essay or her homework or whatever.

Quinn came over and sat across from her. She waited until Santana looked up.

When she did, Santana dropped her pencil and sat back in her seat, crossing her arms. She narrowed her eyes at Quinn.

Quinn had to be mature and brush off Santana's hostility. She spoke coolly. "What's this really about, Lopez?"

"I don't know, Fabray. Oh, maybe just this thing called Human Rights and how you shouldn't treat people like shit because they're a tad too different?" Santana looked at her challengingly.

And Quinn had to. She just had to.

"Are you even gay, Santana?"

The question caught her off guard and Quinn took this as her opportunity to buy time since she didn't have anything better to say. She stood up and walked as steadily as she could, away from Santana.

x x x

* * *

Quinn was now fully confident in her manipulative powers. Figgins totally ate her shit and now, the GSA was abolished two weeks after Quinn and Figgins had their little sit-down.

And Quinn was supposed to be happy. Wasn't supposed to feel bad (or strangely turned on) when Santana cornered her in the bathroom one day.

"You know there's nothing wrong with it," Santana said, as she turned off the tap Quinn was using.

With her hands still coated with soap and bubbles, Quinn gave Santana a 'really?' look before stepping over to the next sink. "I'm only doing what I'm supposed to," Quinn said, turning the faucet and letting the water run over her soaped up hands.

From the looks of it (Santana's big inhale, her eyes narrowed in unmistakable fury, and her mouth on the verge of opening, perhaps to release fire balls) Santana was going to verbally smack Quinn down in Spanish. And Quinn, being quite proficient at Spanish herself, dreaded whatever it was Santana was about to say because she would actually be able to understand it perfectly.

But then, to Quinn's immense relief, Santana backed away and held her hands up. A pose of surrender which eased Quinn, but only slightly.

"Look, Fabray. Why don't we talk later? Sit down and talk about this. Over dinner or something."

It was hilarious. Santana was asking her out. Sure, it was because Santana wanted Quinn to retract her petition, but still. Dinner was dinner. "You paying?" Quinn asked smugly.

"What?" Santana said, and then, after realizing Quinn was serious, said, "Okay fine, I'll pay."

"It's a date then," Quinn said, trying very hard not to smile.

"What? No!" Santana insisted. She turned and made for the door. "You're so cheap, Fabray."

x x x

* * *

Santana met with Quinn at a 24/7 diner near the freeway. They were sure they weren't going to bump into anyone they knew there because the customers who frequented this diner were bikers and truck drivers. Maybe even your occasional hooker. The neon light outside didn't even work and the shabbiness and obscurity of the diner served the purpose of assuring that this meeting, this dinner for two, stayed a secret.

"I just did it. I opposed because I was expected of it. In truth, I thought they'd turn my requests down and approve yours. I'm just as surprised as you are, Santana."

Santana let out a huff as she sliced through her pancakes angrily. (Yes, Santana was having pancakes for dinner.) "So you did all that for kicks? God. So fucking unfair." She then proceeded to stuff her mouth, really testing the elasticity and stretching capacity of her cheeks.

At least she chewed with her mouth closed. Quinn gave her that.

"Religion frowns upon it," Quinn said. She put her hands around her coffee mug. Quinn was on a strict Cheerio diet so she preferred having dinner at home. Where the food was less greasy and less likely to kill her in three years time.

"And God said, 'may my sheep always have a shepherd, to light up and lead the way, for they should have no power to think for themselves'." Santana boomed, in what was probably her mock God voice.

That irritated Quinn. Why was everyone such an ass about Christianity?

"You know it'll be a complete mess. That's why Figgins thought it was best to disband your little club," Quinn said. She took a careful sip of her coffee.

"Figgins is a coward. He doesn't know what's coming. Oppression just fires up the rebellion in people..." She poured more maple syrup over her pancakes. "There are a lot of people out there, Fabray. A lot of people who love someone so much, but are powerless about it because their society, even their families, think it's wrong."

And Quinn didn't want to talk anymore. She had nothing she could say.

"Look, Fabray. You're not an idiot. You're not like the rest of them. I honestly think that you're better..." and then Santana interrupted herself to stuff more bites of pancake into her mouth, as if it were the only way to stop herself from telling Quinn all these cheesy things.

She chewed quickly and when she swallowed, Quinn could hear it. Santana gave her an imploring look and said, "Just... Get them to reconsider."

x x x

* * *

The abolished Gay-Straight Alliance wouldn't go down without a fight, apparently. They planned some sort of rally and to start off, they walked out of their last period classes.

The first protest was a small group. Among the protestors, Quinn spotted Blaine and it was hard to tell because she was so far away (watching the rally through the window of their Spanish Class classroom), but Quinn swore that he was holding Kurt Hummel's hand.

They played Beatles songs. The extra hippie ones about love and peace. Acoustic guitars accompanied the voices of the group and they all sounded so hopeful. People were holding up rainbow-striped flags and signboards. Quinn even made out a few of them.

_CHOOSE LOVE._

_ACCEPTANCE. EQUALITY._

_TOLERANCE._

_ATTENTION HETEROSEXUALS: WE WANT TO BE MISERABLE, TOO._

_CAN'T PRAY THE GAY AWAY._

And of course, Santana Lopez. She was dressed in these rough acid-wash jeans that were ripped at the knees and she had a red plaid shirt on, unbuttoned over her black wife-beater. Santana had a bullhorn to her mouth, shouting about how it was the 21st Century and that Lima, Ohio was 'embarrassingly traditional'.

Quinn decided activism was hot.

x x x

* * *

Two days later, Blaine and Kurt sprung up on her at the school car park. She was fresh from the shower because Cheerios practice ran a little late that day and threw off Quinn's entire evening schedule.

"Quinn Fabray, you awful, awful human being!"

Blaine's high-pitched freakout gave Quinn such a jolt that she dropped her car keys. Was Blaine always like this? Did he always speak like he was on the verge of tears?

The pair of them stopped in front of her and they weren't looking so happy.

"What is your problem?" Quinn said, annoyed.

Blaine probably thought she was feigning ignorance or something because he was still looking accusatory. "Your Celibacy Club spawn just staged a very offensive divine intervention for me and Kurt."

Quinn did not get it. "Offensive?"

Blaine's hands exploded in a big gesture. "They trapped us in a what they had the nerve to call a 'prayer circle'. Then they opened about like, twenty different issues of _Playboy_ in front of us!"

"It was horrible," Kurt Hummel said theatrically, fanning his face with his hands as if it would stop him from crying. Or from the looks of it, crying again.

She was going to kill whoever it was who thought this was a good idea. This new issue made her head ache. She had to kick out the fool who started this. Strength in numbers be damned.

"Okay. Now... Firstly, as President, I would like to extend my apologies. I wasn't aware of this activity-intervention thing. I would've known but because I honestly don't. I can assure you that they did this behind my back."

Kurt and Blaine were unswayed.

"And secondly, I'm not dumb. Possession of pornography on school grounds is punishable by suspension. If I were to organize an intervention for the likes of you I sure as hell would not have dumped a porn stash on your front door."

Quinn knew she had this angelic thing going on for her so she smiled at Blaine after she said this. She smiled as sweetly as she could without coming off as fake.

He was still looking at her with displeasure but Quinn was sure he'd come around.

"I think she's telling the truth," Kurt finally said.

There was a pause. Quinn chose this time to bend down and pick up her keys.

And when she straightened back up, there it was. Blaine's reluctant shrug. "Okay, fine. But your lapdogs. How about you rein them in a little?"

"You have your beliefs, we have ours. I can't promise you we'll stop praying over you. What I can assure you though, is that you never have to forcibly see another female centerfold in your life. Ever again. How's that sound?"

Blaine and Kurt looked at each other. And then after moments of them nodding then shaking, then nodding their heads in a bizarre silent conversation, they finally turned back to Quinn and did this really freaky Siamese Twin thing.

"What if..." Blaine said.

"What if we showed you?" Kurt said.

Quinn was mega-apprehensive and annoyed about this. "Show me what?"

"What if we showed you our world?" Blaine finished.

x x x

* * *

Quinn wasn't really sure how it happened but after an hour of getting crappy directions from Blaine and Kurt, and alternating having to listen to them sing along to every song on the radio and having to listen to them flirt like fancy monkeys, she pulled into the car park of a bar called, God forgive them, _Scandals._

"Scandals?" Quinn mused.

"It's a gay bar," Kurt explained helpfully.

"What?" Quinn said, a little louder than she intended.

"Oh, come on, Quinn. Don't be like that," Blaine said. He put a hand on her shoulder after she refastened her seat-belt.

"No way. No shitting way. I am not going in there," she said, turning her engine back on.

"Wait, Quinn... _Quinn_," Kurt said as he and Blaine helplessly watched her shift into reverse.

She backed out quickly and an instant later she heard Blaine's panicked "QUINN!" and a very loud car horn sound off.

Quinn slammed her foot on the break and she lurched forwards from the recoil. Blaine and Kurt were a tumbled mess in the backseat and the other car horn was still screeching.

"Shit," Quinn said, ears ringing, blood rushing. She was relieved, yes. But mostly she was shitting herself.

"Are you crazy?" Kurt said, voice high and hysterical. "You almost got us killed," and then, after realizing his own dramatics, added, "Or something. God, Quinn!"

"I know, I know," she said, easing back into the parking space and then cranking the hand brake back up with a finality.

Quinn checked her rear-view mirror and saw that Blaine's body was twisted around to look at that back window. He said, "We're lucky it's only Santana."

From her rear-view mirror, Quinn saw that the driver of the red 80s BMW she almost totaled was, indeed, Santana Lopez.

She sprang out of her car, her anger evident. Lucky, Blaine said. What 'lucky'? This was like, worst-case-scenario levels for Quinn already. She rolled the window down, ready to receive Santana's enraged yelling.

"Oh you better be glad you didn't hit me!" Santana started threateningly, marching up to Quinn's car.

Quinn wanted to disappear.

"Hey, Crash Bandicoot! Where's your license? 'Cause you don't deserve it. In fact, I'm going to shove it right up your fucking—"

The look on Santana's face when she discovered that it was Quinn in the driver's seat was priceless. It really was one for the books.

Quinn grinned at Santana hopelessly. "Hi," she said.

And Santana just stared back at her, breathing hard. Snapping out of it, she shifted her attention to the backseat, to the sound Blaine made when he rapped at his window. Quinn watched through the rear-view mirror as Blaine and Kurt waved at Santana innocently.

Blaine opened the car door to the backseat and Santana popped her head in. "Holy shit! I thought you were bringing Brittany?" Santana hissed at them in a low voice (which Quinn heard anyway but like, whatever. She tried to ignore how disappointed Santana sounded that Quinn was here instead of Brittany).

Blaine then let out this fabulous laugh. With the rear-view, Quinn saw their exchange in the back. He told Santana, while putting a gentle hand on her arm, "We said 'young blonde Caucasian female'. And I'm pretty sure Quinn still fits that bill."

The line of Kurt's mouth contorted weirdly. He tried to hide his smirk and somehow, this made Santana blush. "You bitches," Santana said, shaking Blaine off half-heartedly. They laughed as she ducked out of the backseat into the parking lot.

"Now get your asses out of there. I hit you up with all these sweet-ass identities."

After they all piled out of Quinn's car, Santana proudly held up a flush of cards.

Fake IDs. Of course.

Kurt jogged over and picked out the ID he assumed was his. He snorted. "Dale Ratliff?" he read, cocking a perfectly plucked eyebrow at Santana. "I sound like a character from Downton Abby. Santana Lopez, how did you ever come up with this stuff?"

"Seventh Sanctum," Santana said, handing Blaine his ID. "It's a site. An online name generator."

"Something tells me you didn't use Seventh Sanctum with mine," Blaine said. He frowned at his ID. "Anderson Trooper. Wow, Santana. Subtle. Absolutely subtle."

"What?" Santana said, walking over to where Quinn was. "He's like the hottest gay man in America. Be flattered, Anderson."

To Quinn, Santana prompted, "Emily Stark." As Santana passed the ID between them, Quinn did this sneaky where she made sure that her fingers brushed against Santana's.

"Miss Stark is barely legal," Santana said to Quinn, giving her a playful wink.

Then Quinn tried to maybe not smile like the biggest idiot in the universe. She turned the card over in her hands and saw that she looked nothing like the woman in the ID picture. Quinn was thankful for this because she actually preferred it if she couldn't make it through the bouncer.

Then Quinn, curious, said to Santana, "And you? Who're you supposed to be."

Santana whipped her ID out. It had Santana's own picture in it. In this picture Santana wore glasses and her hair was shorter than it was right now.

"Rosario Cruz," Santana announced in a manner so swank, Quinn found it adorable. "She writes the advice column for the Daily Bugle," Santana said, with what Quinn could only describe as Santana's huge, dork-of-the-year grin.

Butterflies. Quinn was getting the butterflies.

Maybe this whole gay bar adventure wouldn't be all that bad. At least Santana was there to look at.

x x x

* * *

Quinn couldn't believe that two hours have already passed after she stepped inside _Scandals. _She now attested to the _fantabulousness_ of gay men. She still got hit on, just, not in _that _way. Gay men were direct and expressive about their appreciation for all things beautiful so all throughout the night, Quinn was showered in clever flattery and witty compliments.

Another thing about gay men was that Quinn didn't have to worry about them on the dance floor. Yes, most of them were flamboyant with their body rolls but not once was Quinn ever groped or felt up.

And Quinn didn't want to admit it, but Blaine Anderson had moves. That boy could dance. So she joined him and Kurt on the energy spike brought on by A-ha's "Take On Me." It became less about trying to look cool and attractive and more about just getting the funk out of their bodies. Quinn was enjoying herself so much that she could care less if she looked like a crazy dancing puppet.

Quinn felt so alive. The only thing that would make it better was if Santana...

Santana was still at the bar, doing shots. She appeared to be having an animated one-sided conversation with the bartender. Probably about genius stuff that he wouldn't be able to comprehend in a hundred years.

"Make her dance!" Quinn shouted at Blaine and Kurt, over the jukebox music.

"What? Santana? Oh, she doesn't. That's not her thing, Quinn!" Blaine shouted back. Then Blaine smiled as if he just remembered something. "However..."

"However," Kurt picked up, lips curled up conspiratorially. "Our dear Santana is quite the songbird."

This interested Quinn to no end. Come to think of it, she wasn't able to hear the other girl sing. Like, ever.

Blaine threw his hands up in the air. "Oh my God! We have to do Karaoke Corner tonight!" He then hooked each of his arms into Quinn's and Kurt's. He led them over to where Santana was and the three of them dragged her in her mildly disoriented state, right to the TV and microphone stand at the farthest corner of the bar.

x x x

* * *

Santana sang TLC's "No Scrubs" with her eyes shut. The lyrics that lit up on the TV were neglected and Quinn kind of felt sorry for them. Blaine was hugging Kurt from behind and they cheered Santana on when they weren't singing along.

Quinn never saw Santana this free and unguarded. And God, how her voice was beautiful.

Given all those shots she had earlier, Santana moved with a tipsy person's slight abandon. Quinn thought it was magical, how Santana was really _feeling_ it. She made Quinn laugh as she waggled a finger at her during:  
_  
_

_No, I don't want your number  
__No, I don't wanna give you mine  
__No, I don't wanna meet you nowhere  
__No, don't want none of your time  
__  
_

When it got to the rap-break-it-down-part, Santana worked it even more. She made these pumping motions with her arm and hopped around the stage like a kangaroo on coke. Coming into the closing chorus, Santana ended her performance prematurely by gracelessly falling off the karaoke platform.

And Quinn realized then. She was in love.

. . . . . x


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** No Rhyme or Reason  
**Author:** interpol..ice  
**Fandom:** Glee  
**Characters:** Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez  
**Rating:** T  
**Words: **9,800+  
**Quinntana Week Prompt: **Monday, March 25 - Popular Girl & Nerd  
**Summary:** QW2013. Being Cheerios Captain and Head of the Celibacy Club, Quinn Fabray was McKinley High's glorified version of the girl-next-door. What happens when she finally realizes that she's always had a thing for Santana "the brain with boobs" Lopez?  
**Disclaimer:** Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and his people. I own little, I own little.  
**Author's Note:** This is like, embarrassingly over-due but I've been really swamped with my summer practicum and the first month of school. And along the way, the bones of this story have shifted and I didn't want to rush the next chapter because I now have bigger plans than I originally intended for it. I promise speedier updates the next time but for now I hope you all think this one's worth the wait. So here it is, the second part.

Also, because Dork Santana is the best. ENJOY.

* * *

x x x

**NO RHYME OR REASON  
**_by  
interpol..ice_

PART II

x x x

* * *

After the incident at Scandals, they spent the next hour at the nearest McDonald's, feeding Santana hash browns and coffee. Quinn, Blaine, and Kurt listened patiently as Santana went on a ramble about parallel universes and if they really existed, her parallel-universe self would have been a Cheerio with perfect hand-eye coordination. She insisted parallel-universe Santana wouldn't have fallen off a karaoke corner stage at a gay bar.

"It wasn't that bad, San." Blaine was rubbing her arm consolingly. He and an entertainingly drunk Santana sat together across the table from Quinn and Kurt.

"I just made a spectacular loca-loca-level fool of myself in front of Lima's entire gay community. Of course it wasn't _that bad." _Santana grabbed at her coffee cup miserably and tipped her head back as she put her lips to the brim. She craned her head back even more. After a beat, she slammed it down onto the table.

"I gots to have my cuppa Joe!" she announced before knocking the empty paper cup off onto the floor and then burying her face in her arms on the table.

"That isn't sanitary, Santana," Kurt said. He didn't approve of the ketchup and grease stains she picked up from the floor after her misguided stage-diving antics.

A muffled "booooo" came from the bundle of hair and limbs that was Santana Lopez.

Then Kurt and Blaine did this thing where they argued like parents.

"You know how much she likes those maple syrup shots," Kurt said.

"I didn't know she was going to order six of them, Kurt," Blaine countered.

"I need to lie down," Santana said. And she kicked off her shoes so only her peculiar red socks showed. Quinn assumed that the winged golden stones were those snitches from _Harry Potter. _ The kind of socks you expected on an eight-year old boy.

Santana proceeded to gently kick at Blaine to make him go away.

"Bed, bed, bedddddd," Santana mumbled, stretching herself out on the lounge seat after Blaine's evacuation. He stood next to the table awkwardly, as if he was unsure as to whether he was more embarrassed for himself, or for his out-of-it best friend.

"See?" Kurt said smugly.

Blaine rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Kurt."

Quinn and Kurt scooted closer into the booth to make more room for Blaine. He took his seat gratefully.

There was a period of the three of them just watching Santana.

"What are you guys going to do with her?" Quinn had to ask.

Blaine and Kurt took a quick look at one another and burst into giggles. "How do you solve a problem like Santana?" they then sang in unison.

It was crazy how well they harmonized on just that one line. Like they sung it all the time because Santana had a bad habit of getting in trouble

"You guys are proper assholes," Santana mumbled tiredly from below the table, arms over her head to shield from the harsh fast-food lighting.

Blaine and Kurt just exchanged amused smiles before turning to Quinn.

"Quinn, dear? Could you maybe like, drive her home?" Kurt said in a whisper, making sure Santana couldn't hear.

Quinn peeked over the table to look at Santana. Her shirt rode up since her arms were raised to her face. Quinn saw a belly-button, a lean waist, the sun-kissed skin of her stomach.

Drive her home?

Why, Quinn would be honored.

x x x

* * *

Quinn dropped the two boys off at Blaine's house because Kurt was spending the night. She drove Santana last because her house was on the outskirts of Lima, near Lima Heights. The place the Lopez's lived was called Lima Heights Adjacent. It was the rough part of Lima. Quinn's father used to warn his little girls about the dangers of wandering into the wrong side of town but that didn't stop Quinn from roaming the streets with her bike when she was younger.

This was how she knew where Santana lived.

Santana was asleep at shotgun the entire time so when Quinn nudged her awake, she sort of jumped in her seat when she realized that it was already her house they were looking at through the car window.

"How'd you know my address?"

"Blaine left me directions," Quinn lied.

"Oh," Santana said. Then she started fumbling with her seat-belt.

She struggled with it, so Quinn reached over and helped her release the latch-plate. Santana's fingers didn't move aside so Quinn went extra sneaky at this part, making sure her fingers touched Santana as she pushed down the button on the latch.

The shoulder belt retracted in a snap and Santana wasn't able to get her head out of the way in time. The metal latch-plate struck Santana's left ear.

"Fuck!" she said.

"I'm so sorry," Quinn let out, eyes widening in concern. "Shit, I'm really, really sorry," she said in one quick breath as she made a move to touch her but Santana waved her off with an embarrassed laugh.

"Naw, it's cool. My bad. I'm just really retarded right now," she said. She shook her head, like it'd help expel her retarded demons. "Hey, Fabray," Santana started. "Thank you, you know, for driving me home."

"Thank you too. I had a great time," Quinn said. She smiled at Santana, hoping to convey the enormity of the warmth and sincerity rocketing inside of her. All this, just from hanging out with Santana for a night.

Santana's lips spread into a grin then she opened her mouth to speak. But she didn't, she stopped and just rolled off into a cute little chuckle.

"See you at school, Fabray."

Quinn listened to the rustle that was Santana Lopez exiting her car. The door smacked closed and Quinn didn't know if it was the persistent scent of Almond Joys the other girl left in the car, or her lazy smile, or the way her Flash Gordon t-shirt looked stupid now because of a huge ketchup stain in the middle, but whatever it was, it made Quinn roll the front-seat window down.

Picture lava and lightning. This current, this hot-electric energy. This bigger-than-butterflies feeling caused by the rich rasp of a voice, the light in brown eyes, the way sweat beaded up on caramel skin, the dopey spread of full lips.

You couldn't blame Quinn for wanting more.

Santana was like ten steps away already, about to climb the stairs to her porch. But Quinn wasn't about to flake out. Not now.

"Hey, Santana!"

Santana looked over her shoulder. And when she saw that Quinn's car was still parked in front of her house, she turned around completely.

Quinn felt her throat tighten as the other girl made her way towards the car. "Can I take you somewhere?" she blurted out, not sounding as casual as she intended.

"What?" Santana said, before jogging to close the distance. She lowered herself until her head was level with the window. "Did you just ask if—"

"I mean," Quinn interrupted, before Santana could make her say it again. "Can we like, hang out again?"

Santana grinned that grin of hers once more. She had her hands against the car's window frame, to keep her up as she bent over. With suspicious, narrowed eyes, she said, "Strange, Fabray. Strange."

Quinn just shrugged her shoulders, smiling at Santana hopelessly to hide the fact that it would break her fucking heart if Santana said no.

But alas! Santana accepted with a nod. "Yeah, whatever," she said. Then she pushed off of Quinn's car door. Walking backwards, she told Quinn, "Maltese Falcon tomorrow. Meet me there at ten."

What the fuck was the Maltese Falcon?

"Milkshakes help with hangovers," she called loudly before sauntering off.

And then, there Quinn was, in her car, suddenly really loving the scent of her cherry air freshener mixing with the faint scent of chocolate and coconuts. Suddenly loving how, when she turned the radio on, Ellie Goulding's "Anything Can Happen" came on.

Quinn couldn't, for the life of her, stop grinning. Her whole body felt like a thousand pop rocks fizzling in Pepsi.

She started singing.

x x x

* * *

Hanging out a malt shop, sat across the one and only Santana Lopez, wasn't Quinn Fabray's idea of a typical Saturday morning but it was pretty much happening right now. She wore her best slim-fit khakis and her favorite custard-colored cardigan over a simple white blouse. Her feet, clad in light brown ballet flats, tapped nervously underneath the table.

She didn't want it to look like she was _trying _but she secretly hoped Santana found her pretty today.

Santana, on the other hand, was exactly how Quinn expected her to be, given her drunken stupor of a Friday night. With her wayfarers propped up on her head, atop her wild hair, she was naturally red-eyed and grumpy. Nevertheless, Quinn thought Santana was attractive in that crunchy granola way, dressed in a royal blue long sleeve Henley shirt, light grey jeans and worn out Vans.

The consistent accessory Santana had on her was her black Casio calculator watch. Santana wasn't normal in the sense that she didn't that rude thing in class where some kids checked for the time every other minute. Santana didn't do that.

Except for in PE. It always seemed like she wanted to get PE done and over with.

So Quinn thanked her stars that Santana wasn't doing that watch-checking deal with her. Thankful that Santana was up for killing time with her.

x x x

* * *

It was a good thing Santana was too absorbed in sipping at her free (very free, Quinn's pocket money would attest) vanilla milkshake. Otherwise, Quinn highly suspected that Santana would be cursing at her for making her get out of bed so early.

Quinn wanted to say something clever. Something funny. Something that wouldn't make Santana get up and walk away, like she did in the first grade.

Santana beat it to her, though.

"This used to be a tobacco warehouse," Santana said, all trivia-like.

"What is it _now_?"

"It's a mash-up of all that is good and holy in this world," Santana said simply. "This is where I get my goods."

When Santana meant 'goods' she meant her comics and pulp fiction books. Her quirky t-shirts and limited edition holographic Justice League posters.

While Santana enjoyed her drink, Quinn looked around. The Maltese Falcon was actually this surprisingly huge place that stood three floors. The first floor was where you found the malt shop and across it, the comics and books section. The second floor was half the size of the first, and you could reach it by riding up the escalator at the corner of the comics and books section. From the malt shop, you could see all the activity on the second floor because of the glass pane soundproofing it from the chatter, TV noise, and music from the dining public below. The second floor, Santana said, held the record and video stores and across from them, a big section of cool memorabilia. Posters, shirts, toys, coffee mugs, and even dining plates. Collector's items and limited editions, stuff Santana's lunch money went to. Santana called it a _goldmine. _Then, when you went up all the way to the third floor, you could watch throwback films or special screenings of whatever their little cinema had lined up for the day.

It was amazing, Quinn had to admit. This secret world of the geeks which catered to their every need. Quinn was glad Santana had this place. Quinn was glad Santana let Quinn in on all of this when clearly, she didn't fit in.

The regulars and the waitresses and the people behind the bar and the counter were giving her strange and fascinated looks. Quinn was used to attention but this was the kind that made one feel like an unwanted imposter.

Upon seeing her all tense and nervous, Santana, popping the straw out from between her lips, she said, "Relax. They're just not used to it."

"Used to what?"

Santana gives her a pointed look. "C'mon, Fabray. It isn't every day that a pretty girl walks in here."

x x x

* * *

"So what's the deal? Why are you interested in us all of a sudden?"

Quinn couldn't blame Santana. Of course she would be suspicious.

"I didn't intend for last night to turn out the way it did. It just happened."

"It's just really weird for someone who's supposed to be this shining beacon of heterosexuality to bump crotches with the opposite sex at a _gay bar_."

It was. Quinn couldn't argue with that.

"Yes, it wasn't planned or anything. Actually, the reason why they took me there was because of this stupid intervention shit my Celibacy Club pulled on Blaine and Kurt. But I don't regret it, Santana. I'm glad they took me there. I had fun."

Santana considered this. Then she put a hand to her brow and rubbed at her temples using her thumb and her fingers. She said, "Oh God, what am I doing?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm... I'm fraternizing with the enemy—wait! Oh my God, that's such a _Goblet of Fire_ thing to say. Sorry, where was I?"

Quinn could not stop the scorn from taking over her features and Santana could not take that as her cue to shut up.

"As I was saying," Santana said matter-of-factly. "For all I know, you're probably doing a stupid case study on me and my friends. Show it to your Celibacy Club minions or to Figgins and make us look like we belong in a mental facility."

"Are you always this cynical, Santana?"

In response, Santana rolled her eyes. And despite the condescension and arrogance of it all, Quinn thought it was pretty. "Oh, please, Fabray," Santana said. "It sure beats the blind obedience thing you've got going on."

Quinn frowned. "It doesn't hurt to have faith," she said. It felt awkward. It was always a line of hers at the Celibacy Club. Saying it to Santana, right here and right now, and watching her malicious smirk, gave Quinn a headache. She felt like a child explaining her ridiculous understanding of quantum physics to a Nobel Prize-winning scientist.

"You're a real piece of work, Fabray."

Santana said it in an amused tone. Like she thought Quinn was this big joke.

Something told Quinn that feeling safe or confident or secure around Santana was not in the near horizon for her. She could be downright repulsive when she wanted to. With a burning pang in her chest, Quinn acknowledged the utter foolishness of her conclusions from yesterday.

Love? Santana?

She must've been really out of it last night if she seriously considered having romantic feelings for Santana Lopez. Look at the girl. The graceless way she took out her straw to lick at the foam? The way she played with Quinn's hopes, raising it sky-high and then dropping it like it was nothing?

Santana Lopez was impossible.

x x x

* * *

The next Monday at school, Quinn had to sit down with her Celibacy Club for a long sermon. She looked at all of them sweetly, proudly. There were the kids she went to Sunday school with, bitter because nobody paid them any attention. The bible zealots, the annoying pansies they were, who got too much attention. The Cheerios who wanted in on her good graces, who were so scared of having their knees and palms on the itchy grass when they had to make a pyramid and their hockey team boy counterparts, who they banged on occasion.

It was a fucking pantomime, but whatever. Quinn needed her army. Quinn needed the God Squad for show.

But that shit they pulled with Kurt and Blaine last Friday? That needed a goddamn reprimand.

"I heard about that little exhibition you guys prepared for Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel."

Their mischief-laden faces. The way their eyes lit up. The way someone can't hide how smug they are about their handiwork. There was a pair of hockey jocks who didn't bother with discretion as they gave each other passionate high fives.

What idiots.

Quinn kept a serene face. "And may I ask who the master-mind was?"

She steps forward proudly, and the rest of the club had no idea what they were in for as they clapped along energetically.

Kitty Wilde. Why wasn't Quinn surprised?

"I suppose you're expecting high praises from me?" Quinn said quietly.

Quinn was set on sending Kitty Wilde packing and to Kitty's credit, she sensed the doomed turn of the conversation. Her face immediately darkened.

Quinn had to put her foot down. It was final: Kitty had to go.

But the defiant quirk of Kitty's eyebrow told Quinn it wasn't going to be easy.

"So what if I am?" Kitty said.

"That was low, Kitty. Without consulting me? Low."

"It's not my fault you withheld from your opportunity to be an instrument of Our Lord and Savior. Those deviants must be reprogrammed."

Kitty spun away from Quinn to look at the body, the rest of the club. To draw some sort of support.

None was given.

"I'm very patient and forgiving but you've crossed multiple lines, Kitty. I want you out of this club."

Kitty seethed. "You can't do that, Quinn."

Quinn stepped towards the smaller girl menacingly. "Pornography on school is a serious offense. You could have gotten all of us suspended. Or expelled. You put us all at risk for something so groundless, I've got to let you go."

Then out of nowhere, Joe Hart got up. The hardcore Jesus boy was on his bare feet, looking to say some serious shit.

"Pardon me, Miss President, but you've got to admit, Kitty's been a Holy High-roller. I personally think the Celibacy Club would be crippled if you made her go."

How dare he say that? This was a slap to the face. Didn't he know that Quinn _was _ the Celibacy Club?

Kitty then turned to her like Joe handed her a goddamn gun and now she was feeling powerful all of a sudden.

"See, Quinn? You need me because I'm the voice. I speak for this club. I put to words what the people in this room believe in and you know what, Quinn? Ever since this Gay-Straight Alliance came up, you've been awfully quiet. Last time we checked, you haven't been giving out any statements as to what the CC's stand is on all this."

"Yeah, Quinn. Obviously we're against it," one of the meat-head hockey jocks said. Quinn wanted to shave his dirty mullet off because who the fuck asked for his opinion?

Quinn parried it off like a pro. "It's a sensitive issue. And who said I wasn't doing anything about it? I filed a complaint and Figgins acted on it. They're abolished. It's in the files and everything. Isn't that enough?"

"They didn't back down, Quinn," Kitty reminded her. "The GSA's still vulgarizing its sinful ideas around McKinley or were you not around when they threw that big protest two weeks ago?"

Quinn shot down their concern. "That protest was a joke. You don't think anyone took them seriously now, do you?" She said lame stuff like this when her back was against the ropes.

"Better safe than sorry," Kitty said, crossing her arms at her chest.

God, how Quinn wanted to slap the bitch.

She took a deep breath and said, "If you're that worried about some silly club, set shop somewhere else. Leave now, Kitty."

Quinn was already pulling out her big Ice Queen guns and yet, Joe Hart kept on with his valiant efforts. He put up a hand because it seemed like he had something to say. Yes, even his dreadlocks quivered in fear when Quinn's glare landed on him but the boy carried on. "You kick her out, we're going out with her."

Half of Quinn's Celibacy Club stood up.

And this was the last thing Quinn expected. They were all balking on her. And Quinn didn't know how to deal with it. Never in her life has she been overruled like this.

Quinn felt her lunch climbing up the walls of her stomach. Up the walls of her throat.

"You need to calm down, Quinn," Brittany said, from the back of the room. Unlike the others, she was still sat on her chair. She must've moved towards the corner when things started getting testy with Quinn and Kitty. Physical or verbal. Brittany hated the violence. "Calm down," Brittany repeated, worry in her clear blue eyes.

Quinn swallowed hard. She pulled out her case of Tic Tacs from the secret pocket of her Cheerio skirt. She flicked the lid open and shook three mints out onto her palm. She quickly popped them in and chewed, letting the sweet cool spread in her mouth, killing the acid taste that came with the vomit threat.

It was a few moments of the world blurring up and being hyper clear again. Of breathing in and out so hard that it made her dizzy.

They all looked sorry for her. Quinn couldn't take it. She rushed out of the room.

Insubordination hurt like a motherfucker.

x x x

* * *

As if the disaster at the Celibacy Club wasn't enough, Quinn missed the school bus on the count of Cheerios practice running late (mainly because Kitty Wilde was being an uncooperative bitch). Apparently, her father, who was out-of-town during the weekend, heard about the hour at which Quinn came home last Friday night. He heard this from Quinn's traitorous mother during breakfast this morning, and so, as his role of being a dick and making things a million times harder for his daughter, Russell Fabray took away Quinn's car privileges for a month, making her surrender her car keys to him before she left for school today.

Quinn had a long walk home ahead of her and she had to be on her way if she wanted to make it in time for dinner.

x x x

* * *

She was six blocks away from her place when a red blur shot past her, too close for comfort.

"Yo Fabray!"

Santana maneuvered her red mountain bike so that she turned to face Quinn again. She pedalled towards Quinn, that smirk on her lips. The one that always managed to pit Quinn's feelings so violently against one another.

"Would you watch it!" Quinn said at nearly having been sideswiped. She was tired and upset. She couldn't handle Santana hogging up all the sidewalk space right now.

"Sorry," Santana said, riding past Quinn again. "Was never the most coordinated monkey in the barrel." Quinn tried not to be disturbed at how Santana was trying to be charming.

"Were you following me?"

"Kind of," Santana admitted. She kept riding circles around Quinn, riding out onto the main street through the sidewalk ramp in front of them and then cycling back down to enter the sidewalk again from two ramps down.

Quinn didn't have time for Santana's games.

"How incredibly sweet of you," Quinn said in an unimpressed manner. She took extra care to raise her voice when she added, "And not to mention psychotic," when Santana cycled near enough.

Santana broke into a laugh then, the front wheel of her bike wobbling from the motions. Before losing her balance, she floored her bike pedal and spun around Quinn again, then said to her, "Only fair that I escort you home, Fabray. You know, after what you did for me the other night."

"It wasn't a big deal."

If silence meant yes then Santana agreed with Quinn. It _wasn't_ a big deal.

Quinn couldn't believe it was possible to feel worse. The sky should be shitting bricks on her any minute now.

And that was when Santana gradually shifted into her real agenda.

"The GSA is going to hold a kind of secret forum..."

Oh, so _this _was what it was all about then. Quinn should've known. "What do you want, Santana?" Jesus holy Christ, she wasn't in the mood for this after getting so much heat from her own Celibacy Club about the same thing.

"If it's a secret forum, why are you telling me about it?" Quinn said, not getting what Santana's playing at.

Santana slowed her pace on the bike. She said to Quinn, ducking her head down to make sure her wheels didn't touch grass. "I sort of want for you to assure us that there won't be any trouble from the Celibacy Club."

_Yeah, good luck with that, Santana_, Quinn thought to herself sourly.

"We kind of want your blessing," Santana added hopefully, to which Quinn rolled her eyes at.

"Yeah, that and my vow of non-interference. Sorry, I can't help you there."

"Wait, but I thought you—"

Thought she what? Quinn couldn't even keep her own 'disciples' in line, the damned ingrates. Quinn wanted to promise peace to Santana but she couldn't even trust her unruly members to tie their shoes if she asked them to. And she wasn't going to let Santana find out about that. Not if she could help it.

Quinn was drained. Spent. So now, all she really wanted was for Santana to stop. To just maybe go away for a bit.

With her mouth set, her biting tone ready, she said, "Figgins has terminated the GSA. Why won't you let it go? You're wasting your breath with these forums and protests. Get real, Santana."

The line, of course, got Santana to narrow her eyes and purse her lips. "Look at you. You don't have a single pro-homo bone in your body. It's like you were born to marry Mr. Rogers and live out the typical suburban housewife dream." She finished with a shake of her head, saying, "Of course you wouldn't understand."

The American dream, Santana meant.

Quinn wished she wanted that. Her father and mother would want for her to have that life and if Quinn were really honest, if her parents had their way with her, that was probably the kind of life she was going to fall into.

But no way was she letting Santana gloat over the fact that she just read Quinn like an open book.

Quinn was a bomb. And Santana was always, consciously or unconsciously, lighting the fuse. Quinn was known for her cool and her composure. She wasn't tainting her reputation today. She wasn't going to blow up in front of Santana Lopez.

"What makes you sure that I don't? That I don't understand?" Quinn asked her seriously, stopping in her tracks because once again, Santana was being impossible.

And Santana raised herself off her bike seat and let her feet land down onto the concrete, so she ended up standing over her bike awkwardly as she slowly came into grips with the error of her ways.

Santana posed a permanent threat to Quinn and what Quinn stood for. She was always up to something. Always starting a fire somewhere. See, Quinn knew that without Santana, the GSA wouldn't have enough order and passion to stand a chance.

So Quinn needed to quell Santana for now. Put her back into her place.

Quinn's voice was firm. "Let it go, Santana." And normally, if it were anyone else, that would be enough. She walked on, pace quickened in a dumb hope that she could shake Santana off.

But Santana, being Santana Lopez, didn't let up that easily.

"I won't." Santana punctuated her sentence by waddling over and dragging her bike in front of Quinn, blocking her path. She promptly ignored Quinn's offended expression.

"I'm not letting it go because I believe in the movement. If you're loud enough, you'll be heard. 'Hope will never be silent'," Santana quoted.

Quinn could only return that with a blank look.

Santana scratched behind her ear, mildly annoyed. "Harvey Milk?"

Quinn averted her eyes because she was dangerously close to rolling them again. Santana's ability to recall things from memory has been there since they were kids. Quinn envied and cursed it in equal measures.

"You clearly haven't been doing your AP Gov & Pol extra credit work."

Santana liked rubbing it in. This was why she didn't have many friends.

"Miss Holiday was a substitute," Quinn started, in her defense. "Clearly she was sneaking in some topics that didn't agree with McKinley's curriculum."

"Ha! There you go again, goody-goody!" Santana said, pounding at her handlebars.

Quinn stepped around the obstruction that was Santana and her evil bicycle. "She only met with us twice and those weren't actual assignments, just suggestions. If you weren't so hot for the teacher, maybe you'd know there was a difference."

"I'm not fucking hot for Miss Holiday," Santana hissed angrily from behind her.

Quinn spun around to face Santana who was still standing there, her bike between her legs. "What?" Quinn challenged. "She's ridiculously attractive for an older woman. Do you have eyes?"

Santana floundered, thumbs rubbing self-consciously at the gear shifts of her bike. "Well, yeah, but I don't see her in that—"

"Santana."

Quinn swallowed quickly, hoping her voice wouldn't squeak when she'd ask what she always wanted to ask. Quinn was about to ask because one, she wanted to irk Santana. Monumentally irk Santana. And two, because she really wanted to know.

So here went nothing: "Do you even like girls?"

Right now, Santana was like this asexual fairy creature, never giving away clues as to who she was attracted to. It fascinated Quinn. But it frustrated her even more.

Santana paled up and she bit her lip, unable to keep eye contact with Quinn after the big question.

"Well?" Quinn said, checking the time on her watch. It was a quarter past five.

"I don't know. I've never really..." Santana said in a weak voice.

Quinn stood there, finally feeling the weight of her extra clothes and the textbooks in her backpack as she waited on Santana's words.

"I like looking at girls, definitely," Santana said, placing one foot under a pedal and then kicking it back up so that the bike chain rattled. God, she was really nervous about this. Then Santana looked off to the side, eyes on a passing Corolla. She said, "But like, wanting to hold a girl's hand or whatever? No siree, uncharted territory."

There was a new delicacy in the air.

Quietly, Quinn said, "Why go through all the trouble then? If you aren't even sure?"

Their eyes met.

And then Santana got on her bike again. She started riding slowly. Quinn fell into step beside her and for some silent moments, they moved forward in this manner.

Funny. How fast it was for Santana to integrate a complicated math problem on the board was about as slow she was at answering personal questions.

It took a while but she finally spoke.

Cycling softly alongside Quinn's steps, Santana said, "I just want that right, you know? I want to be allowed to like girls too and not be worried about... being stoned to death because of it. I want that. I want that for everyone else."

And Quinn, even with Santana's biting comments and her abrasive personality, even with all of Santana's repellant qualities... Quinn couldn't fight off the automatic need to be Santana's payoff. Quinn wanted to be that first girl for Santana.

Dusk colored the sky a dark orange and as the day faded, the shadows and the autumn lighting made Santana's profile a sight to see. A hidden treasure that Quinn dug up by accident. The lines of her nose and her chin. Her high cheekbones. The honey skin, golden in the dying sun. Her lashes thick and long, that bordered her bright brown eyes. Eyes that glowed with so much soul and intelligence when she looked at you.

How did everyone else miss this?

x x x

* * *

"This is me."

Santana gripped at her brake levers and her bike skidded to a halt. Quinn watched as she took in the Fabray house. The formidable size, its big windows, and the decadent landscaping of massive trees and trimmed bushes got Santana all wide-eyed. Then her gaze fell to the immaculate, white picket fence surrounding the whole place.

Quinn guessed at what Santana was thinking right now. Something along the lines of_ how predictable _and _of course, of course ._

Instead though, what Santana said was, "That's a really nice lawn." The breathlessness in the way she delivered it, the lack of malice. It told Quinn that she meant it. Not only the lawn, but for everything else.

Quinn's parents made sure their home had this effect on people. It screamed for respect. For Santana who didn't take bullshit from anyone to just stand there and be compelled to speechlessness by a fucking _house _alarmed Quinn.

And she didn't know why but Quinn shook an "okay" out from her lips.

Santana tore her eyes away from the big American flag that hung proudly on one of the posts of the Fabray porch. "Okay?"

"The GSA forum," Quinn clarified. "I'll do something about it. Make sure we don't make complete asses of ourselves again."

She didn't know how she was going to pull it off but she'll think of something.

And Santana grinned broadly at that. "Good call, Fabray."

She looked good this way. Quinn should do Santana favors more often. She watched Santana, who was unable to hide her excitement, pretending to rev up her bike by the handle bars as if it were a motorcycle.

Adorkable.

"Be seeing you at school then, Fabray" Santana said brightly.

Quinn smiled back. "Yeah, see you."

Santana pedalled off and Quinn watched her disappear around the block before she walked up her own driveway, not knowing how to feel.

x x x

* * *

Cheerio practice in November meant special insulated spanks and leg warmers to fight the chill of the wind and sadly, for the rest of the McKinley High Cheerios, not only did they have to battle the cold of the season, they also had to put up with their Ice Queen of a captain.

Quinn didn't feel the need to explain why she was extra hard on the squad these days. No, she wasn't bothered by the fact that despite having all these toned, fit girls in front of her, she would still choose awkward and gangly Santana.

It was hard putting up with these girls. They talked about the most trivial things, like who got to choose what flavor the condom had to be, which brand of pregnancy test to use. Or how they were going to con their parents into buying them designer shoes. The kind of girls who actually found it sweet that Kim Kardashian and Kanye West christened their baby girl North.

Most of these girls, so fake, so without substance.

The only affection Quinn had for them was when they were sticking the landings of their back hand springs and when they kept their lines defined and straight after a complicated floor routine.

Another reason why Quinn didn't let up on the harshness was because Kitty Wilde was here. Yes, she reminded Quinn of herself, what being an active member of the Celibacy Club and easily winning Coach Sylvester's approval at freshmen tryouts. And yes, the similarity used to hold an appeal to Quinn but after that stunt Kitty pulled, the parallels disgusted Quinn and put her in inexplicable bouts of unease.

She put Kitty at the bottom of the pyramid for the heck of it.

x x x

* * *

One of Quinn's most prized possessions was her cheer captain necklace.

Aside from various silver charms (like a tiny cheer megaphone and a tiny cheer pompom, a solid capital C-_for Captain, for Cheerio, for Champion_), another item which hung from the necklace was a square silver working whistle that, although small and slender and elegant-looking, was a powerhouse after it was blown through.

She wore it during training and practice. She polished it up when she wore it for competitions. Outside, she replaced it with her golden cross pendant because she was a model Christian and everyone needed to know.

Both necklaces gave her a power, yes.

But the kick she got when she wore her captain's curbchain necklace? It was something else. Something she wouldn't trade for the world.

Quinn liked control. Liked it that she could get an army of the hottest, most physically capable girls at school to fall at her feet for push-ups or to run as many rounds as she wanted. Liked it that her mere presence killed all the useless chatter in the locker room. Liked it that she could just walk up to a Cheerio in the cafeteria and take the hotdog off of her lunch tray and fling it into the nearest trash can, saying 'Cheerios aren't fatties'.

She liked that she could do all that _and_ get away with it.

Control.

On the field. Inside the gym. These were places where her authority was earned by being the best. No one questioned her or her position. Being Cheerios Captain was Quinn's rock.

x x x

* * *

Santana's Sunday mornings she spent playing tennis with her father at the Shawnee Country Club.

The only way this was possible was because Russell Fabray played golf on Saturdays. He had church on Sundays and Dr. Lopez, being very aware of Mr. Fabray's dislike of him and his kind, capitalized on this and made sure they never crossed paths.

He's been bringing Santana along since she was nine and according to Blaine, who was invited on occasion, Santana was so 'Sharapova-esque' he didn't recognize her.

x x x

* * *

Quinn thought about it sometimes. Like, if McKinley had a varsity tennis team, Santana would've been one of the jocks. Admired. Respected. Wanted.

Instead, she's on the Chess Team. This wasn't a joke or anything but she actually sits down for an hour to play chess every Monday and Thursday.

She said that she had to do it for extracurriculars, along with the Gay-Straight Alliance. Both of which she needed to 'fatten up her CV'. Like it wasn't fat enough, what with Santana being an active member of the Mathletes, the Chemistry Club, the Debate Team _and_ the Physics Society.

Santana Lopez's CV was a goddamn whale.

x x x

* * *

The arrival of December meant heavy coats, Coldplay beanies, and those tacky-on-some-tasteful-on-others boots with the fur. December meant cover, meant layers. December was about not freezing to death.

x x x

* * *

On her way to Math today, Quinn was greeted by a wonderful surprise.

"The chess team has letterman jackets?" Quinn blurted out, unable to contain her curiosity-slash-insane amusement.

Santana closed her locker with a bang. When she turned around, Quinn found her blushing. "It was Artie's idea. You know, solidarity and shit..."

Quinn couldn't help her eyes from roaming. The chess team's jackets were black with off-white sleeves, complete with hot red piping. At the back, Quinn saw just seconds before, were bold white letters that spelled out "McKinley Chess Titans".

Quinn did not know why, but Santana looked ridiculously hot in a letterman.

Seriously. It should be _illegal_.

Santana looked at Quinn strangely, like she didn't know how to take Quinn's staring. "God, if it's that much of an eyesore, I'm taking it off after third period."

"No, don't," Quinn said, surprising herself by reaching out to grab Santana's arm. For a moment, the two of them looked at where they connected, unsure of how to react.

Quinn pulled away slowly and then drew Santana's eyes to her own. She said, "It's... It's cute."

"Ha-ha. You're just saying that, Fabray. Spit it out, you think we look like dorks."

"No, you look good in it. Really."

x x x

* * *

Santana wore the letterman jacket the whole day. Quinn liked to think she was somewhat responsible for that.

x x x

* * *

Her band of merry (gay) men for today's walk home (boy, did she miss her car) were Blaine and Kurt. They were going on and on about how perfect Valentino's fall collection was and how it was going to be so hard to top it this winter. Nearing Quinn's house, they finally brought the topic of Santana Lopez up. They told Quinn that aside from tennis with her father on Saturdays, another way Santana kept fit was by playing laser tag.

"Her dad's a doctor and all, but you know how defiant she is. Do you know about her diet? Mountain Dew, Red Bull, and coffee. And oh! Doritos," Blaine said.

Kurt shook his head. "She says laser tag's the only reason she isn't obese right now," he supplied.

"And you're telling me all this because...?"

Blaine went into detail about how Santana earned a free hour of laser tag for completing the stickers on her Maltese Falcon promo card.

Kurt cut in, "Two months ago, she bought like a hundred milk shakes or whatever."

"Thirty," Blaine corrected.

"Or whatever," Kurt insisted. "So she won a laser tag team package for four. Blaine says the promo expires this Saturday."

"That's tomorrow," Quinn said.

"Exactly. And Santana will _die _if she doesn't get to play her spoils," Blaine said.

"She doesn't have that much friends. Which is why she begged us to look for a fourth."

"We asked Brittany," Blaine started, "but she said something about emotional allergies and having to stay in bed, having to take in chicken soup through an IV."

In addition to having an overactive imagination, Brittany Pierce had a bad case of the flu. Quinn called on her every night to check up on her and Brittany, all stuffy-sounding, promised Quinn that she'd be back by Monday.

There was a silence. Blaine and Kurt wondered if they have divulged enough and Quinn wondered if they would just spit whatever they were suggesting out already.

"So Quinn, wanna help us out?"

Well that confirmed it. They wanted Quinn to go on this stupid laser tag night with them.

In all honesty, she wasn't up for it. She was indisposed to the obnoxious lights, the loud noises, the fake fog that one would usually associate with the laser tag scene. And besides, it was kind of a buzz kill, knowing you were the last resort.

"Don't you have any other friends? Friends who actually _do _laser tag?"

Kurt looked at her like she was silly. "We had fun that one night, Quinn. I believe we've got a good thing going on here." His hands flapped between him, her, and Blaine. "Aligned chakras, people!"

Quinn was at a loss. She didn't know what to do with Kurt's cheery enthusiasm. "I don't even know how to play laser tag."

She really didn't. Quinn never played a game in her life.

"Me neither," Kurt said, shrugging his shoulders in that fabulous careless way of his.

"Then why would you..." Quinn trailed off, noticing the blush starting at Kurt's porcelain cheeks. Then she looked to Blaine, who was scratching the back of his head shyly.

It all dawned on Quinn.

"Oh, right. Romantic," she agreed.

x x x

* * *

"So you in?"

Goddamn Blaine and his puppy-dog eyes. Goddamn it to hell.

"Okay, fine," Quinn said. "But you owe me."

x x x

* * *

The Photon Palace wasn't what Quinn expected it to be. What Quinn pictured out was a futuristic Chuck E. Cheese's. But no, The Photon Palace was this sleek, intimidating looking in this white minimalist design that, Quinn hated to admit, was actually kind of tasteful.

The darkly tinted glass doors slid upon as they approached and Quinn tried to hide how weirdly awed she was of everything as they walked into the lobby.

The walls were lined with a material that looked like industrial steel plates. Electric blue and white neon tube lighting ran along the panels. There was a soda and snack bar and a lounge to the left. To the right, there was this huge tunnel that led to (what Quinn read as) 'THE BATTLE ZONE'.

Quinn felt like she stumbled into some freaky spaceship.

At the center, was the ticket booth. Santana walked up to the woman who stood behind the booth's glass window. She took out her promo card and slid it across the counter, through the gap beneath the glass divide.

The ticketing lady gave a good look at her promo card.

"Kid," she said. "This expires today."

There it was. The unmistakable Santana scowl. "Yeah, meaning we're right on time," Santana translated with a mild violence.

The lady snapped her fingers. "No, it's got to be forfeited because it's already expired. If you wanted it played, you should've come here last night, hon." She popped her bubblegum in Santana's face.

"You, you can't—where's Donna?" she demanded.

"Donna's got a nasty case of the sore eyes. She won't be back 'til Monday and tell you what, kid. You know those 'best-before' dates on your Wonderbread and your Twinkies? Well, we here at The Photon Palace work on the same principle," she said, her gum smacking wonderfully with every drop of her jaw. "Sorry, kid, but it's pay to play tonight," she added, sorely unapologetic.

Quinn gently bumped her hip against Santana's to nudge her out of the way. She wasn't putting up much of a fight, mouth agape, and stare all catatonic. It was unattractive, to put it mildly so Quinn tightened her Cheerio ponytail before she leaned very close against the glass divider to work her magic.

"Yeah, but this isn't about the shitty food you like bingeing on after a hard day's work, Ma'am. _This_ is an hour of laser tag. I'm pretty certain you can make some adjustments..." Quinn read the name-tag on the woman's uniform, "Patrice." Quinn paused for effect. "So I suggest you give us Team Package D before I demand for your manager," she finished, as evenly as she could.

It wasn't exactly 'turning up the charm' but Quinn exercised her authority on a daily basis. This was child's play. Patrice the ticketing lady finally relented and all was well.

She turned to her companions.

Santana, Blaine, and Kurt looked like they couldn't believe it.

Quinn went off to the side with all their Team Package D tickets in hand.

"Oh my God," Blaine said. "You brought that hag down."

Kurt snaked an arm around her waist. "Not only is she beautiful, she is F-I-ERCE! Holla!"

Blaine flanked Quinn's other side and being really caught up in excitement or whatever, both boys kissed at her cheeks.

"Yeah, nice one, Fabray," Santana said with much less enthusiasm, trailing behind them.

Quinn could've used a better thanks than that.

They turned a corner and the next thing, Santana was cutting in front of them.

Bolting ahead, Santana gathered all her hair and tied it up in a messy but functional bun. Then Quinn tried not to laugh as she watched Santana jog down the tunnel leading to the 'BATTLE ZONE'.

Quinn told herself it wasn't cute, the way Santana pranced off like an excited, sugar-rushed boy.

x x x

* * *

The Loading Room was this kind of briefing area where the Game Master explained the rules and the point system. How to play the game, basically. Santana complained about the new Game Master. He was this fat, roughed-up looking man in his late twenties with an uneven beard and with nose hairs that the bravest barber wouldn't dare touch.

His name was Howie.

Don't get Quinn wrong. She wanted to listen to the poor guy but every time he opened his mouth, tiny torpedoes of spit came flying so the four of them shuffled to the back. Their plan was to have the group of kids in front of them serve as the first line of defense.

Quinn kind of zoned out then, watching Santana out of the corner of her eye. The other girl kept on pushing stray hairs back behind her ears, unable to keep still. Obviously excited to shoot and kill or whatever.

When Howie finished with this briefing, he left the room of participants to their own devices and equipment. The kids scrambled off to the wall of vests and guns while the four teenagers gathered at the middle first.

"Let's split up for teams," Santana said, after which Blaine, Kurt, and Quinn exchanged uneasy looks. It seemed like Santana didn't know how this cake was going to be cut. She proposed, "Blaine and I—"

"Actually, San—"

"What?" Santana snapped at Blaine.

"I'm with Kurt," Blaine said firmly.

You could see how Santana tried to keep her face from contorting.

"But what about beating our top score?" Santana reasoned.

"Next time. Promise. I'll pay," Blaine said.

Santana's expression softened but there was still a hardness in her eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

Quinn tried not to feel so put down by the fact that Santana didn't want to partner up with her. Santana looked at her like one would look at the kid who got picked last. Quinn was never ever picked last.

Nobody knew how much emotional damage this was doing to Quinn.

And she wished Santana didn't have to be so bummed about it. "With me, Fabray," Santana said. She led Quinn to the wall of vests and phasers.

"So here's the 411," she said, taking a vest out and handing it to Quinn. "I know you weren't listening to that Howie loser and I don't blame you because he can't brief his way out of his own bathroom."

Then Santana took a vest for herself and put it on like a jacket. Quinn followed Santana's lead, clipping her vest shut at the center. And before Quinn could even _breathe,_ Santana was all up on her, grabbing the straps at Quinn's sides and pulling them tighter.

"Trust me, you want it to fit just right. Optimum movement and shit."

"Okay," Quinn said weakly, from the feeling of Santana's hands fumbling near her rib cage. Quinn's heart needed to stop freaking out. Like, seriously.

She unloaded the guns next. Santana held it out by the strap and Quinn took it into her hands gingerly. She put her head through the strap and tested holding the gun. Once Quinn got a decent feel of it, she was grateful that it actually wasn't that heavy.

Quinn realized there wasn't much of a difference when Santana instructed her to when Howie did it. It was equally hard listening to her because Quinn easily fixated on the way Santana's mouth moved and how, each time it did, gorgeous words came out.

_First up, scoring areas. Kill zones. You get hit on your phaser, and at your shoulders. You get shut-down for five seconds. At this point, you can't shoot but your opponents can still get at you. So you still have to look for cover. When you get hit at the front and the back, you get shut out for ten seconds._

"Got that, Fabray?"

Quinn nodded straight away, not wanting to piss Santana off.

_Don't run. It's dark in there so you don't want to collide with a wall or an overweight thirteen year-old. Don't climb shit 'cause they'll disqualify you for that. I know you're a lady and it'll probably never cross your mind to do this, but don't crawl on the floor, okay? That isn't allowed either._

"No crawling," Quinn echoed. "Noted."

_When you fire, you've got to do it with two hands. One should pull the trigger. The other should be at the bottom of your phaser._ Santana took this opportunity to take Quinn's other hand and place it where she instructed, where she wanted it. Quinn relished the contact even though Santana was far from being sweet or gentle about it. _There, that spot underneath's like a thermal sensor that activates your gun and lets you shoot and score._

Quinn grabbed at that thermal sensor part while simultaneously pulling at the trigger, practicing the motions like she would a mid-air split.

"Good, good. You get the idea."

Santana stole a glance at the digital stop-clock on the flat-screen monitor at the center of the loading room and nudged her shoulder against Quinn's to make her look up at it as well. "C'mon, four minutes 'til dispatch," she said.

Quinn said a quick prayer to herself. Not wanting to fuck up at her first time. She looked to the heavens. In her head, she went, _dear God, help me._

x x x

* * *

"Team Package D usually makes for four ten-minute sets. The winning team's the one who scores the most points after all the sets so, yeah. Don't embarrass me out there."

"I was put on this earth to attend to your every whim, Santana," Quinn shot back drily. She didn't want Santana to know how nervous she actually was. She still had no idea what it was going to be like once they were inside the arena.

They were assigned different dispatch zones so that the different teams didn't start from the same base. And so, before parting ways, Blaine and Kurt wished Santana and Quinn luck.

"You guys are going down!" Santana yelled in reply to their good will, completing the threat by flashing the two of them a thumbs-down. She was incredibly immature sometimes.

Quinn didn't want to find it so endearing, but she did.

Once they entered their selected dispatch zone, Santana told Quinn that the doors were going to open at the buzzer and that any time soon, their vests were going to light up.

"So don't freak out when they do," Santana teased.

Quinn smacked Santana's arm playfully with her gun. "C'mon, give me a break." Just in time, their vests burst with light and it took a few seconds before Quinn got used to it.

Santana, on the other hand, was as giddy as a child.

"Setting phasers to stun," she announced formally, holding her laser-gun up with both hands. She then looked to Quinn, cracking a smile. The red lights flashed across her face, making her look dangerous. And sexy, Quinn had to say. Pretty damn sexy.

Santana said to her then, all devilish and determined, "It's crunch-time, Fabray."

x x x

* * *

Quinn never thought she'd admit it but she kind of liked being thrown into this strange situation, partnered up with Santana. The kind where the both of you were high on adrenalin completer with all this hustle-bustle opening up many opportunities for 'accidental' touching.

The various flashing lights and the artificial fog put Quinn in a dream-like state. Huddled close to Santana, vests strapped to their chests, red lights blinking madly, they crouched and scouted for opponents. The mix of all these elements sent off this ridiculous sense of urgency.

"Full points are awarded if you hit Kurt or Blaine. Those two dorks are the money shots," Santana said, while taking on a firing stance. "You can shoot at the kids, though. They carry extra points on them."

And right on cue, a trio of ten-year-old boys rounded the corner. Santana didn't have to say anything. Quinn was already on it, furiously pulling at her trigger and aiming for the chest area of the boy immediately in front of her.

The looks on their faces were hilarious. Quinn suspected it was because the last thing they expected was to be gunned down by two high school girls.

"Sweet. Bonus points, Fabray!" Santana said excitedly, adjusting her strap so that her phaser fell to her side. She held both hands out, prompting for a high-ten.

_God, she is such a dork_, Quinn thought as she gave in, letting both of her palms clash powerfully against Santana's.

The kids argued about whose fault it was that they got beat in one of the safest areas of the arena, pointing fingers and shoving each other in the chest.

"Sloppy work, boys," Santana said, interrupting their bitching, ruffling their hair as she passed them.

x x x

* * *

They plodded through a steep slope and climbed a few stairs to reach the arena's second floor. Lingering at the top of stairs for a while, Quinn kept guard for enemies going up while Santana looked out for anyone who wanted to be going down.

To Quinn's discreet delight, Santana _insisted _their backsides had to touch. She said something about having to be an 'impenetrable fortress' or whatever but Quinn didn't really care. As long as all this gratuitous contact was going on, she was good.

They had to be extra quiet while on the move because the second floor of the arena was made out of steel.

"We've got to reach the tunnel that cuts directly to the opposite side," Santana explained, walking forwards with renewed purpose.

When they reached the tunnel, Santana stopped. Quinn, confused and having caught the reckless excitement of the night, trudged forward but Santana stilled her with a light touch to the elbow.

"Wait," Santana said quietly.

Quinn then let herself be guided to the opposite wall. Santana pulled Quinn in by the hand and once they were snug and already hidden behind a tall stack of wooden planks, Santana let go.

It was easier to pretend it didn't happen. It was easier to pretend that she didn't know what it felt like to have Santana's fingers tugging at her own.

x x x

* * *

From where they were hiding, they had a good view of where the tunnel ended.

Santana leaned closer into Quinn. She whispered, "They'll be coming around. I give them a minute."

Quinn couldn't help from scrunching her face up. Quinn said, "How are you even sure they're coming this way?"

"Please, I know this battle zone better than any of you," Santana said, cock-sure. "There's a trip-sensor two feet in. You don't avoid it, it sets off a timer. It's up there." She pointed to a faint digital time display directly above the mouth of the tunnel. It blinked back the count-down.

_00:47_

_00:46_

_00:45_

"Always gets the noobs," Santana said, with a crafty smile.

Santana was being such a dweeb about it, all breathless grins and hype. Quinn couldn't help but be charmed.

"Ambush on three, Fabray. Aim for their vests. Okay?"

Quinn was fairly confident in her shooting skills at this point.

"Okay."

Santana looked at her with so much trust and hope that Quinn could've died then. And this was all because of fucking _laser tag._

"One."

Quinn couldn't believe it. She was actually excited and eager to please.

"Two."

"Three!"

Santana exploded to her right and Quinn jumped right after her. And just like she said, Blaine and Kurt were just coming out of the dark tunnel, the blue lights of their vests giving them away.

The looks of horror on their faces when they saw Quinn and Santana were almost comical. Quinn would've taken a picture if she could.

Blaine was right across from Quinn, fumbling with his laser gun whereas Quinn already had hers raised and poised to shoot. She fired and there was that unmistakable whoosh sound effect that signaled a take-down.

Kurt was quick though. He dodged Santana's attacks and threw himself behind a solid barricade.

Before Quinn could even process anything, Santana took her by the arm and dragged her into a depression into the wall further back.

"Kurt had a shot," Santana said, breathing hard, keeping Quinn flush against her. "Didn't want to lose you."

Now, this, Santana speaking this way, being this close... This was something Quinn could get used to.

. . . . . x


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** No Rhyme or Reason  
**Author:** interpol..ice  
**Fandom:** Glee  
**Characters:** Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez  
**Rating:** T  
**Words:** 9,300+  
**Quinntana Week Prompt: **Monday, March 25 - Popular Girl & Nerd  
**Summary:** QW2013. Being Cheerios Captain and Head of the Celibacy Club, Quinn Fabray was McKinley High's glorified version of the girl-next-door. What happens when she finally realizes that she's always had a thing for Santana "the brain with boobs" Lopez?  
**Disclaimer:** Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and his people. I own little, I own little.  
**Author's Note:** I know it's been a while since I last updated. A lot has happened, like the awful news about Cory (may he rest in peace) and all this talk of Demi Lovato being in the new season... Things are moving so fast, not only in fandom but in my own personal life so that's why there's been an update-drought for the past weeks. I'm sorry for that but I'd like you all to know that I'm doing my best to keep at this. So here you go, guys. PART 3!

* * *

x x x

**NO RHYME OR REASON  
**_by  
interpol..ice_

PART III

x x x

* * *

Two days later, Kurt called Quinn just as she finished showering. Alone in the locker room, Quinn was sat on a bench in just a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a sports bra, drying her hair with the towel hung around her neck when her phone rang.

"You know where Santana's place is, right?"

"What?"

"Her home. The big place in Lima Heights Adjacent?"

The big place in Lima Heights Adjacent.

Of course Quinn knew where that was. What with a childhood spent with her always taking the unusual bicycle routes on her own, with a can of pepper spray in her backpack because Lima Heights Adjacent was a place where thugs hid in bushes, where ice cream trucks kidnapped teenagers, where you could wake up to find your car still in the driveway, but with the windshield shattered beyond apology.

The things little Lucy Fabray used to risk her pretty little head for.

She counted to three before she answered, so as to feign uncertainty. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, I know how to get there."

"Great!" Kurt said and he went deeper into how they were working on their next rally and were making slogans and paraphernalia at Santana's house. "It's kind of crazy here and we could really use some help, Quinn. Think maybe you can swing on by tonight?"

Quinn was unsure about this. She was expected home in an hour. Her mother would be heartbroken if she had to cling-wrap another dinner plate because Quinn couldn't make it in time. And besides, there was the bitter truth that she wasn't exactly Santana's favorite person in the world.

"What if she doesn't want me around?" Quinn breathed into the mouthpiece. Ugh, she sounded so pathetic. So unlike herself.

"No, she's cool. She personally asked for you actually!" Kurt said, too energetic that it came out forced.

Quinn wasn't surprised when she heard Santana in the background saying, "No, I didn't!" with a conviction that wounded Quinn.

"See?" Quinn said, proving her point.

A pause. "Could you wait a sec?" Kurt said.

And then Quinn sat there dumbly as Kurt covered the mouthpiece on his end. She imagined him pleading with Santana to be nice or something akin to that. Then there was the sound of the phone being passed around and muffled _no's _and _for heaven's sake Santana! _and then Quinn heard a _BANG _across the other line which made her jump a bit in surprise.

There was a tiny stretch of silence in which Quinn waited. A mix of curious and irritated.

Finally, a voice.

"Hey, yo," Santana said, her voice crackling beautifully through the line. Quinn noticed then that they've never really spoken to each other on the phone and that now, hearing her this way, Santana sounded different and familiar altogether. It was fascinating.

"Fabray? You there?"

Quinn didn't even realize that she spaced out. She shook her head, recovering with a, "Yeah, yeah. Still here." She cleared her throat. "So what's going on?"

"If you aren't that busy or whatever, maybe you could come over. Help us out. We could like, uhhh. Use your perspective."

Quinn didn't get how her perspective could help with anything.

It hit Quinn long ago, that the GSA was buttering her up to their cause. Which was probably why Kurt and Blaine involved her at every recreational turn. And Quinn highly suspected that this was another one of the GSA's small ploys to win her over. But still, she toyed with the idea of 'helping'. The idea of Santana in her home, in her room, her natural habitat, held such an appeal to Quinn.

So she said, "I'll be there in twenty."

x x x

* * *

Santana answered the door dressed in dark brown cargo shorts, a faded black Metallica muscle sleeve, and a standard pair of white crew socks. "Hey, Fabray," she greeted with a crooked smile, pulling the door further in to let Quinn pass through.

A woman who looked to be in her early forties came into the foyer from the kitchen. She had on a navy blue apron that was speckled with flour. Her hair was up in a neat bun, accentuating her heart-shaped face. One of her cheeks was smudged with the white powder.

"More guests, 'Tana?" she said, smoothing out her apron and fixing her hair.

Santana's mother was a petite woman with a slim and feline body and gifted with a soft face and high cheekbones. She was strikingly beautiful, like a gypsy. And Quinn saw Santana in Mrs. Lopez's hair and her eyes. In Mrs. Lopez's cheeks and hips. And lips. Definitely the lips.

And all the little voices in Quinn's head chanted their _oh-my-God's_. She didn't know why but she _needed_ for Mrs. Lopez to like her.

Santana threw a lazy hand behind her, at Quinn who was pulling down at her shirt so that it wouldn't look so wrinkly. Santana said, "This is..."

"Quinn," Quinn piped up brightly for Santana, flashing Mrs. Lopez her most congenial, her most toothy beauty pageant smile.

After giving Quinn a good look, Mrs. Lopez's eyes widened and she stood up straighter. "Are you Russell Fabray's daughter?" she said warily.

"Yes, Mrs. Lopez," Quinn said politely, kind of dying inside once she saw Mrs. Lopez's eyebrows come together in confusion.

Maribel Lopez looked to her daughter questioningly.

Santana cracked up at this. "Geeze, Mom. It's just some dumb school project. She won't call the cops, I promise." She moved and positioned herself behind Quinn and put her hands on the blonde's shoulders as she led her to the stairs. Quinn wondered why Santana was really bent on skipping the introductions.

It was a good thing that Mrs. Lopez was a such a sport about it though. She just shook her head good-naturedly at her daughter's obnoxious actions.

"Santana, you could at least _pretend _to be some level of decent. We have guests," Mrs. Lopez said, looking at Quinn through the corner of her eye. "Please act like the lady I raised you to be, Santana," she added sarcastically.

Santana brushed her mother's comments off and scaled the stairs, two steps at a time. Quinn took a moment to look over her shoulder and she caught the wink that Mrs. Lopez sent her way. She smiled at Quinn like they were sharing a private joke.

Quinn took it as a sign.

"Stay for dinner," Mrs. Lopez said.

x x x

* * *

Santana's room was cool in that alternative grunge sort of way, cluttered and packed with all sorts of strange things. The room had an earthy sensibility to it, from its hardwood floor, the Aztec-patterned rugs, the sand-colored walls. Contributing to the room's low lighting was a row of incandescent bulbs attached to a wooden plank that was mounted to the wall, just a little above the headboard of Santana's bed.

Covering the walls, were various posters of bands Quinn's never heard of. Of movies she's never seen. Santana had a huge shelf of books on one side of the room and, right beside it, a slimmer but equally impressive, semi-transparent file cabinet where Quinn assumed she stored her precious comic books.

There was a huge chalkboard at one wall, right next to a smaller cork board that was littered with candid Polaroid pictures of gophers and racoons and bobcats and squirrels. On one corner, was an old record player and an opened box of vinyl records next to it. Santana's window seat, overlooking their front lawn, was twice as long as the one in Quinn's room and on it, rested an acoustic guitar.

It struck Quinn how little she knew Santana. All the stuff in the room that she was unfamiliar with, that she has never come across in her life slapped a harsh sense into Quinn and reminded her that there was so much about Santana Lopez that she still didn't understand.

And that was what's so hard to swallow. That Quinn couldn't see herself fitting into any of this.

x x x

* * *

And then there were the people...

Aside from Kurt and Blaine, who were on Santana's bed, Tina Cohen-Chang and Michael Chang were also present. Quinn gathered it was because they were a fellow minority, being Asian and all, and wanted to show their support. Rachel Berry, on the other hand, was here for more personal reasons. It wasn't a secret, with the whole school constantly giving her shit about it, but she was raised by two Dads. She was doing this for their honor.

So all of them had some sort of purpose as to why they were here today so it was only natural for them to question Quinn's presence. The three of them looked to Santana, conveying a very obvious message with their faces. Their furrowed brows, wide eyes, and half-open mouths said to Santana, _WHAT THE FUCK?._

And Santana sensed their hesitancy. She rolled her eyes at this before turning to Quinn. "You won't rat us out, will you, Fabray?" Santana asked, playfully. The line of her lips gave away a hint of a smile.

Quinn nodded back with a small smile of her own. She said, she _assured_, "Nope. Not a word."

x x x

* * *

Mike Chang's lanky frame was sank into a boulder sized beanie. He fiddled with a Rubik's cube while occasionally sneaking glances at Tina, who was on the floor, sat Indian-style discussing archaic gender roles with Santana and Rachel.

A cardboard box of Bernie's Best powdered donuts was on the rug, next to Santana's knee. Judging from the white dots on Santana's shirt and everyone else's pristine and clean set of clothes, it seemed to be that Santana was the sole reason the box was half-empty.

Santana picked up another donut from the box, the powdered sugar lightly coating at her fingers. She took a big, hearty bite and as she chewed, she realized that everyone had their eyes on her.

She swallowed quickly. "I need my fuel to jet, yo! Go, grow, glow! It's not my fault you people make me think of everything."

"But we had our suggestions!" Rachel Berry piped up.

"Yeah, and they were just great, weren't they? A musical on the streets? C'mon, grow up, Berry." Santana clap-wiped her hands against each other, to get the powdered sugar off.

"I think that's a wonderful idea." Kurt called, raising a finger.

Santana got up. "Let's be real here, people. How much time do we have left before the McKinley High GSA takes the streets?"

"One month," they groaned out altogether.

"And Berry, I know you're like this Broadway prodigy when it comes to musicals and writing scripts and all that jazz but we can't do all that in a month. Next year, maybe. But now, we've got to focus on the feasible."

The room went quiet. Rachel Berry had this dejected look on her face and this really exaggerated pout on her lips but she didn't argue anymore. Looked like she saw the sense in Santana's reasoning. Very rarely did Rachel Berry let the other party have the last word. Then again, this was Santana Lopez.

And when it came to Santana Lopez, exceptions were made.

x x x

* * *

They spent about half an hour working on various stencil templates so that they could spray paint them on shirts, slogan boards, and posters. They were well into their pattern-making when Santana brought out a huge white board and a stencil the size of a license plate. She dropped them at the center of her bedroom floor, unaware that she stole everyone's attention in the process. Then she went down on her knees and reached under her bed, until a rolling sound was made. Out came a can of spray paint. She scrambled after it before it rolled out of reach and, still on her knees, slid back in front of the stencil and board.

"Mass production was put on hold because I wasn't sure how you guys would find them. For all I know, it might be a waste of board and spray paint," she said to no one in particular, shaking the can.

Santana centered the stencil plate onto the board and sprayed. There was a red mist and an unmistakable reek of paint that made Santana's face scrunch up all cutely. After that, Santana let it set for a couple of seconds before lifting the stencil off and revealing the print.

GNIKNIHT

Santana stood, hands to her hips, and looked around the room for thoughts.

Quinn surveyed her company. Her glances switched to their looks of mild confusion and to Santana's fresh print on the floor. When her gaze drifted back to Santana (which it tended to do these days) and Quinn was a bit shocked to find out that Santana was looking right back at her.

Santana shot her the question. "You get it?"

And the funny thing is, Quinn did. She got it, she understood. But she was never completely confident when it came to this girl. She said what she thought about it, voice all meek. "Thinking backwards?"

Santana nodded and waved her hand in encouraging circles as if to say _and...?_.

And Quinn wasn't one to disappoint.

"And," she begun, clarity seeping in, lubricating the gears in her head. "Aimed at the wonderful open-minded people of Lima, Ohio and their infinite supply of backwards thinking," Quinn said, sarcastic-sweet.

Santana grinned at her then. She turned to Blaine with a self-satisfied smile and said, "See? My girl Fabray here _gets it._"

Quinn promptly ignored the way Santana said 'my girl'. At this point, it didn't mean anything. Santana was overcome with excitement, that was the only reason why she'd say that. But still, it inspired a persistent tingle in Quinn. She rubbed her hand up and down her other arm and, well, so much for trying to play it cool because Quinn felt the goddamned goosebumps anyway.

Santana made a grand swing to face her. "Right on, Fabray!" she said, all amped, her arms spread out on her sides.

Quinn felt so goddamn giddy in that moment that she held up a hand for a high-five.

_God_, she thought as their palms clapped together in a triumphant smack. Santana's retarded mannerisms were rubbing off on her.

x x x

* * *

Most of them were back on the floor. Santana was busy preparing schedules and drafts of speeches on a legal pad, having to sharpen her pencil every now and then because she was scribbling away at a furious pace. Mike and Tina were coming up more stencil designs, sharing the one bean bag. Rachel was using Santana's laptop to fix the layout for a support pamphlet to help kids raised by gay parents.

Quinn sat there, embarrassingly idle, with her back against the side of Santana's bed. To seem busy she picked up some gender sensitivity books that Santana and Rachel left lying around and got to reading. At the same time she tried looking approachable in case anyone actually needed her perspective, or like, whatever.

So while all this productivity was going on below deck, Kurt and Blaine somehow ended up having a cheesy, discreet pillow fight on Santana's bed. The scattered pillows and the waves of wrinkles on the sheets told Quinn as much. She tutted quietly because they popped downstairs to help Mrs. Lopez with the chorizo pizza she was making, leaving the bed in chaos.

Really, after doing it on the bed, and being the 'sophisticated' gays they were, you'd expect Kurt and Blaine to at least have the decency to clean up after themselves.

"Santana? Your bed's a mess," Quinn reported.

Santana's pencil stilled at the interruption. She said, obviously trying to hide the impatience in her voice, "If it troubles you so much, Fabray, feel free to make it yourself."

Quinn didn't back down from shit like this, no siree. She was on it like a hurricane, already pulling the top layer off.

Upon hearing the rustling of heavy fabric, Santana shot up abruptly, quicker than a jackrabbit. "Whoa there, ninja! I wasn't serious!"

"Just let me make your dumb bed!" Quinn said, not slowing down her efforts.

Once the bed was made, Blaine and Kurt chose to magically reappear, announcing dinner. Quinn didn't mind them much because with the bed all neat and flat, Quinn finally got the opportunity to scrutinize the duvet.

It was a nice midnight blue and it featured what appeared to be a gang of white robots, their chunky helmets making them look like ghosts from outer space.

"Who are these guys? The KKK of the future?"

Kurt gasped then flung both his hands to his mouth. That was never a good sign.

"You _did not _just say that!" he said, through his cupped hands.

"What?" Quinn said, brow furrowing, with a panic akin to what she would experience if she were running late for Cheerios practice. "What?"

"Oh, nothing," Blaine said casually, hands in the pockets of his perfectly tailored dress pants. He circled the room, quickly taking in everyone's progress. He then met Quinn's eyes. With a shrug of his shoulders he told her, "Santana's going to take away your weekend, is all."

Then Quinn looked to Santana for some sort of explanation.

All she said though (with a steely determination) was, "Clear your schedule, Fabray. You're about to experience the best six hours of your life!"

x x x

* * *

Quinn told herself she'd be absolutely cool about this date-not-date.

She could not believe that Santana honestly thought she'd willingly sit through six hours of _Star Wars. _No way was she going to sit there, trying to keep her eyes open for movies that came out from before she was even born.

To think about it, Quinn didn't even know _what _she wanted out of this arrangement. Maybe she only consented because of all the opportunities there could be in getting Santana alone. That Saturday, they were more than half-way done, easily finishing _A New Hope_ and _The Empire Strikes Back_.

Sadly, for Quinn, they did so at opposite ends of the couch.

x x x

* * *

Sunday, they were supposed to take on the final episode of the original trilogy and Quinn was feeling all sorts of antsy and determined. She dared herself to scoot a little closer to Santana every time she saw a stormtrooper (so _that's _what they're called!) or a fuzzy ewok.

An hour into _The Return of the Jedi_, Quinn finally found the guts and the perfect opening to rest her head on Santana's shoulder.

Then Santana, genuinely surprised, turned to her and panicked. "What? No, don't go to sleep, Fabray. This is a key scene!" Then she shrugged Quinn off, announcing that she was getting coffee and chocolate Jello pudding so Quinn would stay awake.

x x x

* * *

"So?"

"So?" Quinn repeated dumbly.

"Did you like it?"

The lingering touches? Santana whispering her favorite lines under her breath, before Yoda could even say them?

"Yeah, I loved it."

And so, Santana beamed at her.

Like, really. She looked so happy that Quinn stupidly thought that they would kiss or something.

But Santana, being the insensitive dork that she was, just said, "It's getting late."

And Quinn, who had the etiquette of a thousand Victorian ladies, said, "Yeah, I should go."

x x x

* * *

"Where have you been off to? Every day after school?" her mother asked her, behind her morning paper one day.

Quinn thought on her feet. "With friends," she said promptly. "They drive me home some nights." Then she paused, to make room for the bomb she was about to drop. "You know, Mom. This wouldn't be happening if Dad didn't take my car away for a month."

She guilt-tripped them like that. Made them think about something else, mull over a decoy matter so they wouldn't focus on the real issue on hand which was Quinn spending her evenings at Santana Lopez's.

Quinn grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl and peeled it as her mother lowered her paper. Quinn took a big bite of it, a big obscenely naive and unladylike bite.

Her mother frowned, but that was all there was to it. "I'll bring it up with your father," she said sternly. After that, there were no more questions.

x x x

* * *

A few months back, Santana's father, Dr. Lopez, finally became a neurosurgeon. And then all this talk of him having gone to Yale for his pre-med degree resurfaced and spread even more. Russell Fabray didn't say anything about Dr. Lopez anymore. He just drank his whiskey until it put him to sleep.

This was how Quinn got bolder. She started inviting Santana over to her house.

It wasn't really supposed to be that way. See, Quinn invited Blaine and Kurt over as well, so it wouldn't look like Quinn wanted Santana all to herself (which may or may not have been the case). But by some divine providence, the two boys were always caught up in plans of their own.

And so Santana, who didn't want to admit that she was wounded by this Klaine Aiken business, began her nightly drives to Quinn Fabray's house where the eager hostess smothered her with (what Quinn hoped was) intelligent banter, homemade culinary treats, and DvDs of movies Santana considered must-sees.

x x x

* * *

This went on for a good week and before the two of them knew it, they were done with all eight _Harry Potter _movies.

x x x

* * *

Also, Quinn tried very hard to ignore Santana's blatant crush on Emma Watson.

x x x

* * *

Quinn wished Santana didn't have to smell so nice all the time. It was getting harder to stop herself from sniffing too loudly, from burying her face in Santana's hair every time the girl turned around.

When Santana came over last Thursday, she fell asleep and Quinn painted her toenails without her consent. Santana woke up freaking about it but the plum red hue of the nail polish grew on her so she let it go. After Santana left, Quinn ran up to her room and took her pillow (the one Santana rested her magnificent mane of hair in) and inhaled deeply.

And this went on for a while, their movie nights. It eased into a routine that ran on Quinn's subtle orchestration. Santana liked the pies and the butterscotch homemade cookie dough ice cream Quinn made. Quinn suspected that they were the only reasons Santana came back. So Quinn thanked her ancestors. Those three generations of anal-stiff-kitchen-goddess Fabray women for perfecting family dessert recipes.

x x x

* * *

This time, Quinn rented the entire _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy.

And the night ended in an unplanned sleepover. It could snow a lot in Lima. Like... a goddamn lot. A week away from Christmas and the snowfall peaked at two feet. Quinn's parents had left for the weekend to attend a Couples for Christ camp somewhere in Dayton, leaving Quinn to fend for herself for two days.

The thought of spending the weekend in their big, cold and empty home on her own did not appeal to Quinn at all. The windows were all fogged up behind the shut curtains and the heavy chill that festered in the house creeped her out. The warmth from their new electric fireplace did little to console her.

So Quinn said, not trying to sound so pathetic, she said to Santana, "Wanna sleep over?"

And Santana was surprisingly sensitive about it. She knew the situation. She understood. And it was less about the freedom and the defiance of Quinn having the house all to herself and more about Quinn having to be all alone the entire weekend.

So she said yes and changed into one of the fancy pajamas the Fabray's had ready in their guest room.

And they hopped onto the couch to watch _The Two Towers. _(Even though this was already Santana's fifth time seeing it). They had a bowl of popcorn resting on their connected thighs and they indulged in drinking cranberry juice straight from a big bottle, all the while leaning against one another. Quinn couldn't help but congratulate herself for this progress.

It was really cute how Santana faintly recited Gandalf's lines from when he tried stopping the mega-scary shadow and flame beast down in Moria. Santana mouthed along while simultaneously chewing popcorn.

After finding out what happened to Gandalf, Quinn was squirming and trying not to cry and Santana laughed at her but also put a consoling arm around her and cooed, "There, there, Fabray," while rocking her gently, side-to-side.

x x x

* * *

Santana Lopez was spending the night. Santana Lopez was sharing her bed.

_This has to be some fucking dream_, Quinn said to herself at many points. The truth was, as overwhelming as this situation was supposed to be, it still carried a serene power. A certain magic.

All her life she's felt an unshakeable cold in this house. Having Santana, strange and lovely Santana, here in her room, in her bed, made Quinn hopeful about everything.

x x x

* * *

When Quinn woke up the next day, it was to the faint glow of sunlight through the curtains. She squinted and saw that the curtains were being blown softly. The night wind must've popped her window loose and Quinn could feel its effect, her room was freezing. Unbearably so.

It sparked an enchanting vulnerability in Quinn so she curled closer into herself and wrapped the sheets tighter around her. She felt different today. She felt new. With her eyes shut, she turned over. She braced herself to find the other half of the bed empty.

With a deep breath, she opened her eyes and lo and behold, Santana was still there, asleep on her side. She looked peaceful, head propped on her arm and her mouth slightly open. Quinn's heart swelled up with fondness and she had to bite her lip to keep herself from smiling like an idiot.

Nobody knew how much she wanted it. It was a mean want. A selfish, irrational need. To watch those dark honey brown eyes flutter open. To be the first person Santana saw in the morning.

When Santana finally woke, it was so beautiful, Quinn's throat locked up.

But Santana, lazy-eyed Santana, she said to Quinn, voice all thick with sleep and this escaped _affection _that Quinn couldn't believe. Santana said, "Hey."

Something soared within Quinn. Never has she come across a 'hey' that hit her this hard.

x x x

* * *

Santana must've been really tired since she went to sleep again so Quinn took it upon herself to make breakfast: pancakes garnished with fresh blueberries and raspberries. After having her share, Quinn arranged Santana's half all nice and fancy on a big ceramic plate. She brought out a mug and a thermos of hot chocolate and placed it on kitchen counter, next to the pancakes.

Quinn left a Post-it by Santana's plate. The Post-it read:

_I'M OUTSIDE :)_

x x x

* * *

Quinn's already rolled up three fairly large snowballs by the time Santana came out, all bundled up in her big winter coat with a ridiculous red plaid check trapper hat on. There was a mug of hot chocolate in each of her hands. Quinn could see the wisps of steam from where she stood and could already imagine the smooth, hot liquid in those mugs.

"Snowman?" Santana called out, stepping down the porch stairs. With sock-covered feet and an extra pair of bedroom slippers Quinn let her borrow, she wobbled towards Quinn carefully. She kept an eye on the mugs and made sure that the hot chocolate wouldn't spill.

Quinn hauled up one of the bigger snowballs. The one as big as a trash-bin. "Yes," she answered as a half-grunt from the effort. She stacked it on top of the biggest snowball so now her creation stood half as tall as she did. She picked up a long, fairly straight tree branch and stuck it through the two snowballs, to keep them in place. When the crunch of Santana's footsteps grew louder, Quinn turned to ask her, "Want to help?"

Santana closed the distance between them and handed Quinn one of the mugs. Quinn sipped gingerly at the thick and warm sweetness, pleasantly surprised by Santana's brief episode of thoughtfulness. She stole a glance at Santana who was currently checking out the stacked snowballs, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly.

She laughed apologetically. "Sorry, Fabray, but I wouldn't be any use." Santana adjusted her trapper hat with her free hand. "You see," she said, reaching out to pat at the top snowball awkwardly. "I've never made one of these before."

Quinn snorted into her hot chocolate at the admission. She recovered, dismissing Santana's scornful look, and wiping at her nose and mouth with the back of her gloved hand. "Well," Quinn said, before she let out a cough. "Would you like to try?"

"No." Santana kicked at the snow stubbornly, to emphasize her reluctance.

Quinn had to be careful then, since this was obviously a sensitive issue to Santana. "Why not?"

"It's pointless. Jesus Christ. It all just melts away. And a snowman is boring."

Boring? Snowman? Well, obviously, Quinn wouldn't have any of it.

"I bet you thirty bucks I can make an awesome snowman."

"You sure about that, Fabray? Jack Frosted Flakes here doesn't look so promising," Santana said, pointing at the shish kebab snowman Quinn was currently working on.

"This? This doesn't even come close to what I have planned," Quinn said confidently.

Santana looked charmed. "Well, alright then. You're on, Fabray."

Instead of shaking on it, they clinked mugs instead.

x x x

* * *

Now, Quinn Fabray would _die _if anyone knew this about her—and she didn't even realize it, growing up. All the play-dough figures of ballerinas, and trees, and stars, and Mt. Rushmore she couldn't bear to crush back into a ball. All the fondant ornaments she begged to make for her mother's sponge cakes. She even made Brittany's Art Project in sophomore year. Brittany did not understand why it was called a "Bust of Cleopatra" despite there being no bust (_don't you mean boobs?_, Brittany said hotly) to speak of on account of Quinn only having enough plaster of Paris for the neck-up—but the truth was that Quinn Fabray was embarrassingly (to her, at least) talented at sculpting.

x x x

* * *

After Santana left for home, Quinn went straight to work. She borrowed Fran's car and took the tools she'd be needing. She brought with her a shovel, some coal, and spray bottles with a mixture of water and food coloring in them. The stuff in Fran's car and the antics in her head got Quinn all crazy-electric and inspired.

And so, Quinn drove to one of Lima's less popular parks so that she could work without that many screaming kids and nosy adults. When she got there, the place was fairly empty with only two old men on one of the marble chess tables across the field. Wrapped heavily in their coats and scarves, they sat stoicly in front of their chess pieces and didn't seem to notice Quinn's arrival.

Not straying very far from Fran's car, she started gathering, piling up the snow she'd be using. To make balls, she had to pack the pile tightly and make a ball bigger than both of her fists. When she was satisfied, she rolled it around so that it could pick up more snow, more size.

She made another one, bigger than the first. Then what she did was place the two big snowballs side by side and she melded them together until they looked like a wall of conjoined hills. This lumpy wall was for his body and his tail.

She rolled up two more snowballs for his torso and head. She placed them on the wall she made, one on top of the other and began shaping the whole thing better. Then she made lines, first for the layers of flab on his body and torso. Then for his head, putting as much detail as she could to his huge snake-like eyes and his wide, perverted mouth.

The fun part was when she sprayed the colors on. She began with the blue-green skin on the outside, then switched bottles for his orange-yellow belly and face. Lastly, she sprayed the red onto his evil eyes.

When she was done, she ran back a little to look at what she made at a critical distance. It was beautiful. Her gloves were wet with melted snow so she took them off before fishing for her phone in her coat pocket.

x x x

* * *

_Quinn: Get your ass at Crowell Park in fifteen minutes._

_Santana: Isn't that where people have sex when they can't afford a motel?_

_Quinn: YOUR ASS. HERE. FIFTEEN MINUTES._

_Santana: Hold your horses, Fabray. I don't do booty calls._

_Quinn: YOU ARE DISGUSTING._

_Santana: Calm yoself, woman! On my way._

x x x

* * *

"Okay, now you can look."

Santana's jaw dropped as she took it all in. "Holy shit, Fabray!" Her hands came to the sides of her head, like she was trying to keep it from exploding. She was simply hysteric. "Jabba the Hutt? On ice? _Of _ice?"

Quinn nodded with a smug grin.

Santana took her out her iPhone and snapped a picture. She let out a low whistle as she stared down at her phone display with an unreasonable awe. "Look at that," she said, showing Quinn her screen and the fresh photo. "Shit man, that's fucking impressive!"

Quinn laughed in response. She held out her hand and said, "Pay up."

"But that's not a snowman. That's a snow creature!" Santana grumbled.

"Pay _up._"

"Okay, okay." Santana said, unable to wipe the stupid grin off of her face as she dug into her jean pockets.

x x x

* * *

Kurt's dad has been dating Finn Hudson's mother, Carol, for a couple of months now. This holiday season, they were taking one of those 'let's experiment with our future family dynamic' ski trips in Montreal.

Finn would have brought Rachel Berry (despite trying to be low-key about it, the whole school knew he was seeing her in secret) but she and her two dads were going to New York to see The Nutcracker by the New York City Ballet and they wouldn't miss it for the world. And Kurt? Well, Kurt _insisted_ that Blaine come.

So Blaine packed his Louis Vuitton travel bags with his pressed and preppy clothes, his barrels of hair gel, and his six pairs of Italian leather shoes and he boarded that plane for Canada with his high school sweetheart.

x x x

* * *

Two days before Christmas, Blaine catches Quinn on Skype. Blaine had a puffy sky blue jacket on and a ski mask slung around his neck. His cheeks were red and strands of his normally perfectly gelled-back hair stuck to his forehead. It looked to Quinn that he just came back from an exciting round of sliding down mountains without (to Blaine's credit) killing himself.

Blaine was obviously on-edge about something since he was occasionally looking over his shoulder. He said Kurt was taking a bath and "it's exfoliation day, you know how long that takes...". When Quinn asked what was going on and why Blaine was being sneaky, he went into this long-winded confession in low tones. About how Santana hasn't been returning any of his texts or calls and how he's freaking out about being an 'incompetent friend'.

He asked—no, _begged _Quinn to check up on her.

After that, Quinn tried to convince herself that she only said yes for Blaine's sake. It wasn't like she was waiting for excuses to see Santana to fall from the sky(pe) or anything.

x x x

* * *

It was Christmas eve and before Quinn could even press the doorbell she could tell that the Lopez household was buzzing with activity. Santana's mother answered the door with surprise, then, upon seeing Quinn's nervous expression, gave the young girl a warm and festive smile.

"Quinn! I wasn't expecting you."

Not knowing what to do with all her nerves, all her unwarranted energy, Quinn shook off the snow from her coat. "I'm sorry to barge in here, unannounced," Quinn said, acutely aware of the medley of voices further inside. Of men, women, and children, speaking in English, in Spanish. Their normally quiet house was packed with people and Quinn realized she wasn't entirely ready for this. "But may I please speak with Santana?"

"Sure, sweetie," Mrs. Lopez said, opening the door wider. "Come right in."

x x x

* * *

After her visits to Santana's house and all the conversations they had, Quinn's discovered a couple of things about Santana's mother. Though her husband was a respected doctor around these parts, she herself was a force of her own, being an MIT alumna and a registered Chemical Engineer.

Santana adored her mother, that much Quinn could see. Even when Santana's tone was light, Quinn could still feel the reverence when Santana spoke about her mother. She said her mom used to work for a big pharmaceutical plant in Germany. After she received a long-distance phone call from the school Principal informing her that her twelve-year-old daughter punched a boy in the face for having said "_Star Trek_ is stupid", she resigned and flew back to Ohio to focus on raising her only child. She still got big gigs as a consultant and a guest lecturer so she had to go out of town every now and then but it was never for more than a couple of days so it all worked out well with Santana. She wasn't causing that kind of trouble any more.

Maribel Lopez led Quinn right on up. "It's not like you're interrupting her from anything important," she said to Quinn, with a knowing smile.

Mrs. Lopez knocked once, ignoring Santana's muffled 'go away', and flung the door open. "Honey, you've got a visitor," she announced, ushering Quinn into view.

Santana jumped when she saw Quinn. Like, literally.

"What the?" she demanded of her mother, scrambling to the edge of her bed to pick up the video game controller she just dropped.

"Thought you could use the company," Mrs. Lopez said, gently nudging Quinn forwards, further into Santana's room. "Now you can think twice before you accuse me of compromising your social life again."

Santana's eyes narrowed at her mother.

But this caused Mrs. Lopez to tease her daughter even more. "Hey, Quinn? Can you be a dear and maybe convince Santana here to come downstairs and spend some quality time with her family? She's being a classic Christmas Grinch and it's making her little cousins sad."

"Mom!" Santana warned.

Mrs. Lopez laughed. "Okay, okay!" she said, holding up her hands. "I'll leave you two to it." She backed out of the door and closed it.

Santana turned to Quinn miserably. "She let you in without warning to punish me. As you can see, I haven't been diligent about the upkeep of my room. Sorry, by the way." Scattered on the floor were empty pizza boxes and Mountain Dew cans, half-eaten bags of potato chips, and a myriad of socks and upturned sneakers. Santana waved at the impressive mess with weird claw hands.

Quinn laughed because... she wasn't going to lie, it _was _disgusting and all Santana could do was smile at her apologetically.

"Yeah, if I'd known you'd come over..." she started, and Quinn waited for her to continue but Santana just left those words there in the air, not bothering to finish them. And Quinn wanted to say something but all her lines and explanations bundled up in a fog in her head. She couldn't pick out what to say.

A kill-me-now silence.

They wouldn't look at one another so Quinn's eyes flew to the widescreen TV and to the old Nintendo 64 console underneath it. Oh God. Santana was playing something called _The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time.  
_

"Your Nintendo still works?" Quinn said.

Santana went all defensive then, like Quinn accused her of stealing someone's lunch money or something. "So what if I keep it in mint condition? Don't look at me like I'm a freak."

But Quinn did just that and aside from the pitcher of eggnog on Santana's bedside table, she also noticed Santana's knit sweater. It was knit in a such a way that it looked like a screencap of an old Nintendo game. So yeah, it was this amazing knit sweater of pixels forming this sort of 8-bit image.

"And what are those? I think I've seen those before," Quinn said, pointing to the pattern of figures on Santana's sweater. Of three golden triangles arranged in such a way that it formed a bigger triangle with a blank inverted triangle in the middle.

"This symbol is the Triforce. It's the only way Link can save Hyrule. And for your information," Santana said, holding up a finger. "The fact that I'm playing the game and wearing this sweater at the same time is pure, unadulterated coincidence."

She picked up the controller again and resumed playing. "What brings you here, Fabray?"

Quinn knew she'd ask. She took quick steps and sat on the edge of Santana's bed. Like, a safe distance away. Safe being just far enough to not drown in Santana's dizzying presence.

Quinn said, "Blaine told me to check up on you."

"He did? Ha! How sweet of him." On the screen, the golden-haired elf creature that Santana seemed to be controlling was furiously slashing up these weird skeleton creatures that popped up from the grass.

"Yes, he did! I mean, you've been giving him the cold shoulder and it's kind of buzz-killing his holiday."

"Serves him right," Santana said, partnered with an emphatic jerking of her controller. "What with Kurt always stealing him away."

"Oh..." said Quinn, nodding along. "So that's what you're sore about?"

Santana's mouth set into a sombre line. She shrugged her shoulders. And for a while, it was quiet save for the sound of the video game.

Then, after looking at Quinn through the corner of her eye and realizing that she wouldn't be satisfied with just that, Santana said, "I'm fine. Really."

Quinn gave her this _look. _

"God, Fabray. Can't you see I'm having the time of my life?" Santana laughed with a strained hilarity that made Quinn's heart ache in a wrong way.

"I've never had a best friend before Blaine... Like, how do you even do this shit?" Santana said jokingly, not taking her eyes of the screen.

Against her own judgment Quinn said to Santana, painfully off mark, "It wouldn't hurt hanging out with more people. Making more friends..."

"Oh, you mean you?" Santana said, playful. She glanced at Quinn this time, all attentive. It kind of turned Quinn on that Santana even _paused _her game just to look at her.

"Well, not exactly..." Quinn trailed, unable to think properly under Santana's full-on attention. She swallowed thickly. "But I'm not totally opposed to that, you know? Even though you're a complete pig sometimes."

Santana smiled this sad-crooked-hopeful smile that Quinn's never seen before. She said, very quietly, "Why, thanks, Fabray."

x x x

* * *

They spent the afternoon eating gingerbread men and drinking Christmas eggnog out of tacky holiday mugs with photoshopped fat cats on them. They played twenty-five rounds of _Super Smash Bros_. and Santana didn't mind it when Quinn intentionally bumped shoulders with her to get her to press the wrong buttons and Quinn didn't mind it that Santana always used this cute, balloon-like, Kirby creature to kick her sorry Mario ass and gloat about it immediately after.

They didn't mind it at all.

x x x

* * *

Parting is such sweet sorrow, Shakespeare liked to say, but it was getting late and Quinn had to help with the Christmas Eve dinner the Fabray's were throwing for Russell Fabray's golfing buddies.

Before she had to leave, Quinn wanted to like, maybe kiss Santana on the goddamn mouth but Santana was the type who had an exaggerated sense of personal space so all they ended up doing was give each other awkward high-fives.

And Quinn went home, beating herself up about missed opportunities and kisses that, if she just leaned in a little closer, would have tasted like Christmas.

x x x

* * *

One of the first things Quinn Fabray did on Christmas morning was scrape the snow off from her windshield. With a mighty swipe of her arm, the white slush flew right off the glass. She got in her car and gently placed the neatly-wrapped present at the front seat. She pulled out of their driveway as quietly as she could and she drove, listening to Bing Crosby's "Merry Christmas" album.

Quinn was in such a hurry, she forgot a scarf. She was shivering the time she reached Santana's. Shivering because of the cold and shivering, moreso, because of the realization of what this looked like.

She cursed her over-excitement for not thinking this through. She was at a girl's driveway, 6 in the morning, about to give her a present. This was fucking _crazy._

And just when she was about to get back into her car and step on the gas 'til she was back in her own driveway, her phone rang.

It was Santana calling. Quinn panicked and just let her phone ring and vibrate in her hand for a moment. Then she looked up to Santana's window where she found a slit through the curtains. That slit widened and Santana was now in full view with her hand holding her phone to her ear and looking at Quinn like she was an escaped lion. Through the foggy glass, Quinn caught the words Santana mouthed.

_What the fuck?_

It was probably a good idea for Quinn to answer her phone at this point.

"San?"

"Fabray! Jesus Christ! What are you doing outside my house?"

"I don't..."

She didn't what? She didn't _know_? Her consciousness peaked. The snow, all white, covered everything else in its cold and monotony. The air actually stung. She felt it in every inhale. Being out of the car, she realized this crushing pressure the world was putting on her.

The nerves gradually replaced her excitement. Why did she think this would go well? This was _Santana_. It was never going to be smooth-sailing.

"Did I wake you?" she asked lamely.

"No, sorry. These annoying tone-deaf carolers from the Ohio Cub Scouts beat you to it. They were terrible," Santana grumbled. "And hold up Fabray, what do you think you'redoing here?"

Quinn faltered. "I've got something for you," Quinn said into the phone, extremely unsure of herself, looking up and through the window, seeing Santana's eyebrows raised in surprise.

It was silent at the other end.

"Okay, give me a minute," Santana said. And then, "You're crazy, you know that Fabray?"

"So I've been told," Quinn said, holding up Santana's present to her. And then, after seeing Santana's excited smile, she added a, "Hurry up. You'll like this."

Santana let the curtain drop and cut the call.

And Quinn waited.

x x x

* * *

On the porch, Quinn brushed off the snow from her clothes and from her hair. She was full of this ridiculous energy that made her want to jump, that made her want to run. Her hands were sweating in her mittens. Quinn's spent years, drilled at poised and grace until it became a part of her. Until standing straight was just as easy as breathing.

Now this... She has never felt this before. This chaos. This uncertainty that made her want to curl up on the spot.

Santana came out, fingers combing through her hair, eyes still crinkly from sleep.

Quinn loved the extra rasp in Santana's voice in the mornings. She tried not to think it was incredibly sexy and she sort of dreaded the moment Santana when Santana would speak. See, Quinn doubted the strength in her knees right now. If she were to collapse, she would be very embarrassed but she wouldn't say that she didn't see it coming.

"Well?" Santana said, stopping two feet away from Quinn and putting her hands on her hips.

Quinn handed over the present. "Open it," she said.

And Santana looked at Quinn questioningly. Like she doubted the reality of this moment. Of Quinn Fabray on her porch on a Christmas morning. And that kind of pained Quinn.

Santana turned the flat box over, taking in the faux-gold-plated wrapping in a sort of wonder. "Quinn," Santana said softly. The way Santana said it coursed right through Quinn's heart like a shot of lightning. Quinn was intensely aware that this was the first time Santana called her by name.

Looking into Quinn's eyes, Santana said, "You didn't have to."

Once again, Quinn's throat locked up. Her tongue felt too thick and clumsy in her mouth. Struggling and swallowing said, "But I wanted to."

And Santana gave Quinn a look that told Quinn that she wasn't going to push it.

Santana took the lid off the box and dropped it at the instant recognition.

"No way!" Santana said, all worked up and hands flying to the sides of her head. She bent down to pick the present up and she shook it free from its folds as she stood up again. "Oh my God! A Spider-man Costume Mask Hoodie that closes all the way!" Santana looked at her present with adoration.

Then she turned to Quinn with these wet eyes and her trembling lower lip and how the fuck could Quinn look back at Santana without exploding?

"How did you know?" Santana said, eyes all glassy and touched and whatever.

"Lucky guess," Quinn said, kind of dying inside. She happened to have listened in on a conversation Blaine and Kurt had about Christmas presents and what they should get for Santana. Blaine mentioned the hoodie but Kurt decided that they were going to get her an antique French press in an attempt to get Santana to shut up about the 'sub-par' coffee they served at The Lima Bean.

Santana was very pleased. She said, "Wow, thanks, Fabray."

But then her face fell. She slung the whole hoodie over a shoulder and scratched at her temple, appearing very troubled. "But now I look like such a dick for not getting you anything."

Quinn could not deny the tiny hope that grew inside of her while she was looking for Santana's present. The tiny hope that maybe Santana was out there too, roaming the streets of Lima, trying to find the perfect present for Quinn.

Well, this confirmed it.

Santana groaned, showing her teeth and everything. She was really angry at herself.

"It's okay," Quinn said, fearing that she sounded too cheerful to be convincing. Which seemed to be the case since Santana's hands then balled into fists and she started tapping her foot on the porch flooring. "Ugh, I'm the biggest jerk ever."

She then sprang from her position and made a big show of pacing back and forth. This this was extremely uncomfortable for Quinn who, at this point, itched to go home and save herself from feeling any more like an idiot. She said, "I should go."

Then Santana held up a commanding finger and said, "Don't!" And then, more gently, added, "Wait here."

She raced to their front door and flung it open.

x x x

* * *

Awaiting Santana's return and seeping in the cold, Quinn took the collar of her coat and pulled it up for some sort of relief. She watched her breath come out in front of her in puffs. She concentrated on that, trying to drown out the tiny voice in the back of her head that kept telling her that she wasn't supposed to be here.

Santana returned, running towards Quinn like a clumsy tornado with her hands were hidden behind her back. It was probably some spare Christmas card, with a hastily scribbled _MERRY CHRISTMAS! See you at school. _that might just break Quinn Fabray's poor little white girl heart.

The string of words came out of Santana in embarrassed breaths. "Wasn't expecting to get anything... From you of all people!" She brushed back stray tendrils of dark hair behind her ear. "Anyway, I want you to have this."

What hung between Santana's hands was a scarf of deep scarlet with thin, golden stripes, folded neatly onto itself.

Quinn took it from Santana and held it stupidly in her hands. The cloth was heavy but soft. And though it was extremely reasonable (it being the prime of winter) for Santana to make it into a last-minute present, Quinn still couldn't shake the disbelief that Santana would just give it away.

"Cause you looked cold," Santana said, like it wasn't a big deal.

But it _was_ a big deal. And the both of them knew it.

So Quinn gathered herself and smiled at Santana gratefully. Her gaze then dropped to the scarf as she let it fall out of its folds. She was overwhelmed by its length, which ran almost 4 feet.

Santana, prompted by Quinn's shocking discovery (the scarf was magnificently long!), took a step closer to the taller girl and said, "Here, let me." Then she took the scarf out of Quinn's hands and proceeded to toss and turn it around Quinn's neck.

"Remember, Fabray," Santana started, with her eyebrows coming together in utter concentration, wrapping and tugging at the fabric until it piled up all nice and snug, on Quinn's shoulders. "Hand-wash only. And use color-safe bleach." She said this seriously, fixing the ends of the scarf so that the one with the embroidered Gryffindor patch rested proudly on top of the other.

"What?" Santana asked.

Quinn loved the particular feeling that wearing the scarf brought with it. Of being safe, of being surrounded, of being rather fucking important, being in Santana's good graces, and she shook her head. "Nothing. It's just that you're like, the biggest dork ever."

"I am not," Santana denied lightly, blushing from shyly. And then, she did this totally amazing thing. Something she'd never done before, and rolled her eyes (more at herself than at Quinn) before standing on her tiptoes to kiss Quinn on the cheek.

When Santana pulled back, she was smiling. It was this really warm smile. A smile that made Quinn forget about all that was doing her head in. And Quinn paused purposefully, to take the totality of this into account. The rust-colored Christmas wreath hanging from the Lopez front door. The smell of the Lopez porch, of the clove-studded oranges that Mrs. Lopez set out on the windowsills. The weight of the air. How it was really hard to breathe, to process. All of this, she tied together and vowed to remember. The sight of Santana, the moment, the way she said, "Merry Christmas, Fabray."

Quinn, she wasn't really ready for this. To be this happy and hopeful. So her voice came out meek when she said it back. She said, "Merry Christmas, Santana," and everything about it was perfect. How the greeting rang happily between them. How the corner of Santana's lips curved into a lazy smile, how her honey eyes lit up... like they locked up a thousand tiny stars.

And Quinn knew in her fucking heart that things were changing.

. . . . . x


End file.
